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SAM, CHARLOTTE, MANIE, Pinamen and the children have left for Manawane.

Everything has happened so quickly. They dropped me off at the reserve four days ago. I’m staying here in Manie’s house while they’re away. Manie is going to speak to Pinamen’s mother about Pinamen and me.

I wish I was going to Manawane, too, but I know it isn’t my place.

The night before they left, I tiptoed over to see Pinamen. I wanted to be close to her one last time, to breathe her in so I would remember the moment forever.

I was as quiet as a moth. I knew that every ear in the house heard me and knew what was going on, but I didn’t care. It was still private, still my business alone.

I rested my head in her warm, soft arms, and it was like the morning when we’d gone out to lift the net together. But it also reminded me that I was Métis, that I had no band number, that if she married me she would lose her Indian status.

I clung to her and swore that I would do anything to make sure that we would live together one day. Pinamen wept in the darkness. I could hear her heart beating.

We stayed like that until the crows started to caw. Then we parted quietly. And it was as if our separation was like a signal, because soon the whole household was up and getting ready to leave.

Before they left, we shook hands, kissed. Manie took me in her strong arms. As I closed the truck door I rested my hand on Pinamen’s arm. Her skin felt so soft. At the same moment that they drove off, a ﬂock of snow geese ﬂew noisily overhead, the sun glistening on their damp feathers.

I looked up at the geese and waved, happy to see them and hear their cries.

Right now I am ﬂopped down in Manie’s big armchair. I lean back and rest my arms on the worn wooden armrests. I half close my eyes, like a cat warming itself in the sun. I rock gently.

Through the window on my left I can see the band ofﬁce. The building looks the same as it did the day I left for Mont-Laurier. It’s as if the Ministry of Indian Affairs just stopped building it. The outside walls haven’t been painted, and the wood is cracked and blackened. The broken window of the entry hall is still covered with a sheet of plywood that has been warped by the rain.

The reserve is as dirty as ever. Empty beer bottles and crushed cardboard boxes are everywhere. Wrecked pickups and cars are rusting on the side of the road or in backyards. The dogs chase the rats from one scrap heap to the other.

But the most depressing sight is the kids who are playing outside. They’re pushing little boats that they’ve made out of birchbark, trying to sail them through the open drainage sewers that run through the old streambed. The brown waterway cuts the reserve in two and runs into the lake by the Hudson’s Bay Company warehouse.

It makes me so sad to see it.

“Our ancestors were brave men,” Tom always says. “But who will be our heroes now? We are sick and we no longer know how to cure ourselves. We wallow in our dependency and our fear. We hide behind the ﬁlthy curtains of our wooden houses. We hardly dare peek outside when a white man walks by. We spit our hate and our despair onto our own ﬂoors. We bury our heads in the ground because we are ashamed of what we have become.”

The last Thursday of every month, all the mothers gather in front of the band ofﬁce like a clutch of partridges. They wait silently, their heads and shoulders covered with plaid shawls. Their ﬂowered dresses reach the ground. I can’t see their faces or their feet or hands. They almost look like statues.

At nine o’clock sharp, the manager opens the band ofﬁce. The women climb the steps like some solemn religious procession as they go to pick up the social assistance that the government gives all Indian families so that they can survive. The check is written out to the woman. She can claim it by signing the register with an X.

At home, the men are anxiously waiting for their wives to return. The husband will take the piece of paper to the Hudson’s Bay Company store, the only place where it can be cashed. He’ll take the check the same way he used to take his pelts of beaver, otter, fox and marten that he had trapped during the winter on his hunting grounds. But now he just cashes his check, using part of it to settle his debts at the store — just enough so that he can run into debt again before the end of the next month.

At that moment, a small seaplane ﬂies over the reserve. It circles overhead like a bird of prey, then lands on the other side of the point that juts out into the big lake. It’s the smuggler who comes on the last Thursday of every month, snifﬁng out some good business. He berths at the old dock, sheltered from view. He’s in a hurry to unload his precious cargo — cases of beer — that he piles one on top of the other.

The men arrive one by one. They stay a respectable distance apart on the path, to make it seem as though they don’t see each other. They have faces like stone. At the dock, each man holds out forty dollars and then grabs two cases of beer. Once they are back on the path, they move quickly, eyes ﬁxed on the ground like a fox that’s afraid of dropping its prey.

Then the former hunters drown their sorrows.

I realize that I am also dependent on the check that Manie gets from the government. But without it, I wouldn’t be alive. Me, who wants to be a proud Indian, free as the air, a man who only depends on himself — I’m trapped, too.

But will that be me one day, waiting for Pinamen to bring home the damned check on the last Thursday of every month, just so we can survive?

Some say that the government is paying us to use our land. Others say that the money will help us out of our misery, so we can live like the whites. But now I see that it’s all lies and deceit, like decoys. The money they give us only keeps us down even more. We are like cows and sheep that depend on the farmer to come and feed them every day.

The thought makes me feel sick. How did we get to be like this?

We have to ﬁnd the pride that has been forced back into some deep part of ourselves. The whites abused the age-old patience of the elders, but I know that deep down, our pride has not been extinguished.

It burns there like an ember waiting for a brisk wind to fan the ﬂame.

And I swear, the ﬁrst chance I get, I will be that wind.

• • •

As soon as we got back from Sam’s camp, old Tom left the reserve. He’s living like a hermit in the pine forest. Several of us went to help him put up his tent.

“I want to end my days living the way my parents and my grandparents lived,” he said. “I feel close to them here.”

He lives in a magniﬁcent forest of tall pines that runs along the side of the reserve, on the slope of the mountain. The ancients liked to be buried here in the shadows of the big branches that stretch overhead like a mother’s arms. There are a lot of graves lining the path. Some of them are marked by old wooden crosses. Others are scarcely visible through the rusty carpet of pine needles. Tom knows where they all are, even the ones you can’t see anymore.

There is a new cemetery behind the chapel. It’s a small square of fenced-off land, completely barren. The priest said it was more practical to have a cemetery near the church, but the old people don’t like the idea of being buried there.

At the beginning, I went to visit Tom to make sure everything was okay. Then Marc, John and Brigitte started going with me. Tom is always happy to see us. We sit around the ﬁre in a circle. The wood crackles and ﬁlls the air with the sweet smell of smoke.

Here in the pine forest there is no alcohol, no violence. Old Tom tells us stories from way in the past, even stories about the time before the white men came. I listen carefully, and at night, when I’m in bed, I say them over to myself. One day I’ll tell them to Pinamen and our children.

One night, at the end of the storytelling, Tom says something that I will never forget: “The creator of all things made the wolves, and wolves know who they are. The creator of all things made the eagles, and the eagles know who they are. The creator of all things made men, but men still don’t always know who they are!”

This wise old man has given me a lot to think about.

The whole community is upset by what has happened to Tom. Everyone, young and old, feels hurt by what the logging company has done without our knowledge. Why take down all those trees at the same time, in the same place?

“It’s unbelievable,” the women say among themselves. “Anyone who would do that has no respect for Indians or for nature.”

The men say that one day nature will avenge herself, and that her anger will be terrible for humans.

The young people don’t have the patience or the tolerance of the old ones. We gather on the big dock of the Bay store to drink Coke and smoke. The talk gets violent.

But we don’t let any of this show in front of the whites. This is how we do things. What is going on inside us is none of the whites’ business.

For a few weeks now, the police have been on the reserve constantly, poking around, asking questions, pretending to conduct some kind of investigation into whether the Indians are trafﬁcking in alcohol.

But we are as silent as the grave.

SOMEONE IS COMING out of the band ofﬁce. The walk looks familiar, but who is it? I lean forward in my chair.

He looks left, right, lights a cigarette, takes two or three deep drags. He looks nervous. He plunges his hands in his pockets and starts walking quickly.

It’s William. I haven’t seen him for a long time. I wonder where he’s headed, walking as if he’s got a ﬁre up his ass, as the whites would say. Indians don’t usually walk like this.

Now he turns toward Manie’s house — my house!

I ﬁgure he’ll branch off when he gets to the road, but he crosses the street with wide strides. I hear a step on the porch.

I wait for him to come in, but nothing happens. Then, knock, knock, knock! Three timid knocks.

I wait. He knocks again, harder this time, and the sound echoes through the house.

The doorknob is broken. I watch it turn uselessly.

William gives a good shove and the door opens.

“William, come on in! Since when do you have to knock like a woodpecker to enter the house of an Indian? You don’t have to announce yourself. I have nothing to hide.”

We both laugh as we shake hands.

“It’s good to see you, Nipishish.”

“You, too.” I step back and look him over. “But I hope you didn’t get all dressed up just to come and see me. Are you trying to become deputy minister of Indian Affairs or something?”

He blushes red as a ripe apple. I pat his big soft stomach, which hangs over the top of his belt. He’s wearing a light brown summer suit. It’s rumpled, as if he’s been sleeping in it. His white shirt is threadbare, tight at the neck and the wrists. It’s stained with ink at the pocket, and two buttons are missing at the waist. His ﬂowered tie, wide as the blade of a paddle, hangs down to his crotch. But he’s still wearing his old leather logging boots, laced up the calf.

“What are you doing in this getup?”

“I’m dressing smartly these days!” He stretches out his neck, clears his throat and tightens the knot in his tie. He’s very serious. “I took a two-month course in Ottawa and now I’m assistant band manager.”

“Assistant band manager!”

“Yes, sir! When this band manager leaves, I’ll be taking his place.” He draws himself up proudly. “I’ll be the ﬁrst Algonquin band manager on the reserve.”

“Congratulations! But why don’t you sit down? Have a cup of tea.”

“No, I prefer coffee. And what about you, Nipishish? What’s new with you?”

I pour myself some lukewarm tea.

“I’ve had a rough time. I wasn’t made for city life. Luckily, Manie came to ﬁnd me…”

“Have you come back for good?” He looks at me awkwardly.

“Yes. I think I can be useful here. I have plans.”

“The band manager says there’s no place here for troublemakers. As soon as he thinks there may be problems, he won’t hesitate to call in the police.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“If you have any ideas in the back of your head, you’d best bury them six feet under. We are all under high surveillance. The Mounties are patroling day and night. We want peace here. If you’re not careful, you could ﬁnd yourself back in jail.”

“Back in jail?” I’m ﬂabbergasted. “Who told you I was in jail? Who?”

William turns pale. He realizes he has said too much.

“It’s written in red in your ﬁle. You’ve been labeled… strong-willed. If you want my advice, Nipishish, you should go back to the city. There’s no place for you here. The Minister of Indian Affairs likes quiet Indians, and it’s better for you if they forget all about you.”

“I didn’t come here to hide away like a mole in its burrow. When the right time comes, I’ll say what I have to say. Open your eyes and ears, William! Don’t you see the miserable ﬁlth we’re living in here? Come on, come and look at this!”

I grab him by the arm and push him in front of the window.

“Look! What do you see? Children dressed in rags, snot dripping from their noses, playing in the sewers! Is that the future you and your band council are preparing for them?”

He pulls away brusquely.

“Okay, you’ve been warned. I came to tell you this as a friend.”

“Tell your band manager that I am coming by to see him. How about this afternoon at three o’clock, sharp. I have some questions for him!”

He’s already out on the porch.

“Okay! A box has come for you anyway. You can pick it up at the same time.”

“A box addressed to me?”

But William is already lurching down the stairs. They creak under his weight.

A package for me? I’ve never received a package in my whole life. Who could be sending me a package?

• • •

I’m right on time. It’s three o’clock, break time. The secretaries are all in the kitchenette. The smell of coffee and sugar ﬂoats in the air. I walk in without being noticed and go straight down to the manager’s ofﬁce. He shares it with William. Four big gray ﬁle cabinets are all that separate them. William is leaning back dangerously in his little swivel chair.

I stand in the doorway.

“Larivière?” The manager points to a straight chair in front of his big desk, which is covered with colored ﬁles. There’s a big round smoked-glass ashtray sitting in the middle, ﬁlled with hundreds of butts planted in the gray ash.

There are more ﬁle cabinets than the last time, and these are bigger. I wonder what they hold.

The manager reaches for a thick red folder balanced on a pile of ﬁles, places it in front of him, turns the pages.

“Things didn’t suit you in the city?” he asks, though it sounds more like a statement.

“No! I’m back…”

“For good, according to what I hear!”

William shifts in his seat, and his chair creaks. His head is buried in the ﬁle that he’s pretending to read.

“Why did you ask to see me?” the manager asks.

“I want my ﬁle. And my father and mother’s ﬁles, too, that you have in there.” I glance over at the ﬁle cabinets.

He crosses his arms, pushes his chair away from his desk, purses his lips. His mouth looks like a partridge’s asshole.

He shakes his head. “It’s impossible.”

“Why?”

He leans forward and looks me straight in the eye.

“You know, Larivière, that you’re a Métis.”

“My father was an Indian!”

“Your mother was white.”

“I’m an Indian!”

“You’re Métis, nothing more.”

“Who are you to tell me who I am? Where do you come from? What are you doing here?”

I’m sitting on the edge of my chair. I’m like a mad dog, ready to leap at his throat.

He holds up his hands in front of him.

“Whoa, there! Calm down!”

He slams my ﬁle closed.

“William, ﬁle this!”

William hurries over, avoiding my eyes. He takes the ﬁle and puts it in the second cabinet. He looks like an animal that’s being stalked.

I know this conversation has gone poorly, but I’m going to give it everything I’ve got, even if it’s already too late.

“I have another request!”

“Ah, yes? And what might that be?”

“I have the right to a band number like all Indians. I want to make an ofﬁcial request.”

I ﬁnd it deeply humiliating to have to beg for a band number, but I’m doing it for Pinamen.

But the band manager’s answer is already written on his face.

“The ministry feels that there are enough Indians on the land as it is,” he says.

I am on my feet, furious.

Suddenly William hurries over and picks up a big carton box that’s sitting on one of the ﬁle cabinets. He thrusts it into my arms, throwing me off guard.

“I collected this from the bus this morning. It’s for you.”

He reads out the name and address loudly, tracing the words with his ﬁnger.

Pierre Larivière
Lac Rapide Indian Reserve
La Vérendrye Park via Val-d’Or
PERSONAL

It’s from Mont-Laurier. It hardly weighs anything. It’s a square box, solidly wrapped and tied with string.

The band manager pulls open the middle drawer of his desk. He rummages around and holds out a pair of scissors.

“Open it up, and let’s see what treasures you’ve got in there!”

The seconds tick by.

“No, there’s no hurry,” I say. “I’ll open it later.” I turn on my heels and go down the hall. The secretaries have overheard the conversation, and they follow me with their eyes.

I go outside. The fresh air feels good, but the big parcel is awkward in my arms. I hold it out in front of me like some kind of precious offering.

I feel as if hundreds of questioning eyes are watching me from behind the windows of every house. I lengthen my stride. When I get home I take the porch steps two at a time, like a deer leaping over a tree trunk. I push open the door and kick it closed.

To my surprise, there are at least ten people in the house drinking tea — Marta and Rebecca, Manie’s sisters, and their husbands Albert and George, their children and cousins. They are silent, curious. I can feel them all looking at me.

I put my parcel on the table. Marta breaks the silence.

“Kwe, Nipishish. Did you order something from the Sears catalogue?”

I have no choice. They all want to know as much as I do. I turn the package over and over. I read the address again.

I try to rip open the packaging, but I can’t get a grip on it. Rebecca suddenly holds out a kitchen knife, and the string jumps apart. I take off the paper and open the box.

Everyone leans forward, holding their cups of tea. There are lots of balls of scrunched-up newspaper on top. I throw those on the ﬂoor.

At the bottom of the box, neatly folded, I recognize my old canvas bag, the one I took with me to Mont-Laurier. I thought it was gone forever. I hold it in my hands and open it to the smell of my smoked moosehide moccasins. My heart swells and ﬁlls my throat.

And that’s not all. There’s an envelope. I unfold two sheets covered with writing.

I clear my throat. Standing at the end of the table with the box open in front of me, I read the ﬁrst one out loud and clear, the way the priest does when he gives a sermon.

Dear Pierre,

I hope you are well and that you had a good trip home. I would like to have said goodbye before you left us, but everything happened too quickly. When I found out what happened with your report card, I hurried after you. Unfortunately I got there too late. I saw you drive off in the pickup.

The whole class joins me in sending their best wishes for your success in your future endeavors.

I am sending you this little book, which I think you will like.

G. Thibeault

And there underneath are the signatures of all the students. As I read them out I can see their faces — Miron, Cadieux, Allard, Couture, Bertrand, Létourneau, Robitaille, Vézina, Grondin…

One signature is missing, the one I’m looking for.

It’s so quiet in the room, you could hear a leaf fall. I take the second sheet of paper in my hands. It’s a letter, too. Parts of it have been written and erased many times. The handwriting is small and shaky, and the lines keep slanting down to the right.

Pierre,

Hi! I take up the pen to write you, ha-ha. Writing isn’t easy for me. I have to force myself. I understand why you took off like that. I’d go myself if I knew where to go. I miss our beers Friday night. It was good. Méo gave me your bag with something inside. You’ll be surprised. I wish you good luck in your life. The box, it’s my idea and M. Thibeault’s.

I write bad, but I’m writing anyway.

Goodbye,
Your old friend Millette

I reach down into my bag and take out a little book. I read the title: Louis Riel, Métis Rebel. I reach into the bag again. This time I take out a little package. It’s a hard object wrapped in a used envelope from the Ministry of Indian and Northern Affairs.

I close my hand around it. I suddenly feel hot.

“It’s my knife,” I say, my throat full of hot tears. “The one that belonged to my father.”

Everyone is as surprised and bewildered as I am. They know how much this knife means to me.

Finally I open the envelope. There it is. A little red knife with a white cross. I feel a great peace inside me. I’d know this knife with my eyes closed, the way it ﬁts in my palm.

There’s a piece of paper with it, covered with scratchy writing.

Pierrot,

Hello! I went to the police station where I know some people. You know that I’m the one that does their tax returns every year! I found the knife that they took from you the night you were arrested at the bowling alley. I know it means a lot to you, so I am sending it with your other things. If you are ever in Mont-Laurier one day, don’t forget to come and see us.

Méo and Mona Paradis

I never expected anything like this. I was sure that the people I met in the city had forgotten all about me. But I was wrong, and now it is as if a door has been nudged open inside me.

I leaf through the little book. I like the smell of the new paper. On the ﬁrst page there is an inscription from Monsieur Thibeault, but I will save that for later, for me and Pinamen.

I’M SITTING IN Manie’s armchair with a book on my knees. I’m in another world, the world of Louis Riel, when I suddenly realize someone has walked into the house.

Louisa is standing in front of me. I stand up quickly.

“The door was open, so…” she says apologetically.

Louisa often comes to our gatherings in the pine forest. She doesn’t say anything, just listens. She is shy and pretty and she blushes easily. Today she’s wearing a brown skirt and a yellow top. She has tied back her long black hair with a yellow ribbon.

She gives me a big smile. Her teeth are as white as a waterfall and she has clear, intelligent eyes.

We both feel self-conscious. I know she didn’t come to see me by chance.

“Do you want to sit down?”

“No, I have to get home. But you know that I’m a secretary at the band ofﬁce. I’m the one who sorts through the courier bag every Monday morning, and this morning…”

She searches through her bag.

“…this morning I saw there was a letter for you.”

She holds out a thick, crumpled envelope.

“It’s from Manawane,” Louisa says with a shrewd look. “As soon as I saw it, I hid it for you. At the band ofﬁce the mail is inspected, but I ﬁgure the less they know the better!”

“Thank you, Louisa.”

“I was in the ofﬁce last week when you came to meet with the manager.”

“Yes…”

“If there’s ever anything I can do to help, you can count on me…” She doesn’t know what else to say, and she gets ready to go.

“Louisa! What if I want to mail a letter?”

“Give it to me. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you!”

We exchange smiles and she disappears as quietly as she arrived.

I turn the envelope over in my hands. I know it’s from Pinamen.

I can see the envelope has already been used. The old address has been crossed out and Pinamen has written mine above it. I open the envelope gently and unfold the bundle of narrow, rectangular sheets. I let my eyes run over the round letters.

My heart is tight. I can hear the serious and slightly troubled voice of Pinamen as I read.

Dear Nipishish,

I think about you all the time. I’m so happy to be writing you because it makes me feel closer to you. I hope with all my heart that a few days from now your eyes will read these sentences, your hands will hold this same piece of paper that I’m holding in my hands right now, and that you will feel for me the same love and tenderness I feel for you.

We had a good trip. We arrived at Mother’s house in Manawane the same night. It was a big surprise, because she didn’t know exactly when I was coming.

Charlotte got reacquainted with uncles, aunts and cousins that she hasn’t seen in a long time. She and the children are going from one family to another. Sam didn’t waste any time. He has gone ﬁshing for whiteﬁsh with his brothers-in-law.

But I want to tell you about Manie and my mother, Mathilde. They remembered that their paths crossed a long time ago on the Attikameksipi River, which they took every autumn to get to the hunting territories in Haute-Mauricie. They’ve been spending all their time together, visiting their old friends.

My mother is a strong woman. My father died shortly after I was born. She never wanted to marry again, and she raised us herself, me and my three brothers. She became a trapper and took over the family territory. In the winter she drove a dog team and negotiated prices with the manager of the Hudson’s Bay Company. She has always been very tied to tradition.

She and Manie talk about us, but I don’t get involved. I just wait and listen. One evening, my mother told us the story of her marriage. I’ll tell it to you in her own words so you can be the judge:

One autumn, my family went up the Attikameksipi. We were going to our hunting grounds to spend the winter. One night we put up our tent on a beautiful island covered with forest and surrounded by a sandy beach. There was a full moon that night.

There was another family camping on the other end of the island. It was the people of Weymontachie. They saw our ﬁre, and the parents came to visit us. It was the family of Prosper Neashit. We talked about the hunting and our territories all evening. Before they left, Madame Neashit said, “I have a son who is ready to be married. His name is Simon. He’s a ﬁne boy.”

My mother just said, “My daughter Mathilde is a ﬁne girl, and she will marry a man who can support his family well. He will be a true Indian, a good hunter, courageous, proud of his race and his ancestors!”

Madame Neashit told all this to her son, Simon. All winter, Simon ﬁshed and hunted. He went off on the trap line alone for weeks, on snowshoe or with his dog team.

At the beginning of spring, we were back in Manawane when all of a sudden a magniﬁcent team of six big dogs crossed the camp and stopped right in front of our cabin. It was Simon! I saw him for the ﬁrst time. My God but he was handsome and strong. And so proud. You could see it in the way he held himself and the look in his eyes. His sled was sitting deep in the snow under the weight of the bundles of furs and moose meat.

My mother came out of the cabin, her beret on her head, her short pipe clamped between her teeth, her hands on her hips.

“I want to marry your daughter!” Simon shouted to her.

My mother took her time, pulling on her pipe. She looked Simon over from head to toe. She saw the beautiful mukluks and embroidered mittens that his mother had made for the occasion. She saw the loaded sled, the lively dogs. And she gave him a big smile.

Two days later I left with Simon. I was fourteen years old. He was seventeen.

After my mother told me this story, she looked at me. “My daughter, Pinamen, is a ﬁne girl,” she said. “She will marry a true Indian. A man who is brave, proud of his race and who will walk in the steps of his ancestors.”

So there you have it, my Nipishish. That’s what my mother thinks of us getting married. I am still counting on Manie to intervene at the right moment. Even though I know it’s not how things were done in her day, I intend to talk to my mother about you, tell her how much we love each other and how much we want to live together.

Nipishish, write me back soon. I feel so alone here. I remember that beautiful morning when we pulled up Sam’s ﬁsh net in the mist. No matter what happens, I will never forget those wonderful moments.

I love you,
Pinamen

• • •

Night falls. The sky is cloudy, there are no stars.

I’m getting ready to answer Pinamen’s letter. I light the oil lamp and place it in the middle of the table. I take my paper and my pen from the drawer where Manie keeps her beads, her thread, her scissors and needles.

I sit down and rest my hands on the table. I lean my hot forehead on them, my nose pressed against the oilcloth. I breathe in deeply and ﬁll my lungs with air.

My heart feels like a heavy gray cloud. Then the storm breaks, my shoulders heave. At ﬁrst the tears burn, but then it feels as if a huge weight is pouring out of me.

When I’m exhausted but calm, I sit up again. My hands are red, my paper is wet. As I wipe my face I remember what my father would say when he handed me his handkerchief when I was a child. “Here, your nose is running like maple sap in the spring.”

I start to laugh the way I laughed when I was little. But now I’m a man. I know that I’ll never forget the residential school, the jail, but I like myself the way I am, and I know that I will follow my road right to the end, with pride and respect, no matter what the cost.

I write as if Pinamen is right here with me. I’ve thought a lot about what I want to say.

My dearest Pinamen,

Thank you for your wonderful letter, which I have read over and over, until the paper is practically in shreds. When I read it I can hear your soft voice whispering, like the wind through the tops of the big trees in springtime. When I see a bird take ﬂight, when I see the sun rise on the horizon, I am amazed at its simple beauty, and I think if only Pinamen were here so we could share these moments together.

I read the passage about your mother several times. I am afraid to understand it. It’s like we are two trees on the opposite banks of a wide river, and our branches can never touch.

But I am not going to give up. Like you, I have faith in Manie.

Pinamen, tell your mother that someone can be an Indian, a true Indian, without being a hunter and trapper, without living in a tent the way our ancestors did. Tell her that I have never felt so Indian, and so happy to be an Indian, as I do now. I respect my ancestors more than ever, and I am as solidly rooted in this earth as the oldest pines of the forest. Today I know, in every ﬁber of my being, that I am from here and nowhere else. I have ﬁnally found my home.

I am ready to give my life to keep this heritage that my ancestors left me, and pass it on to my children.

Tell your mother that to reach the goals I’ve set for myself, I need your love and support, as much as I need air to breathe, water to drink, and the land to walk on.

This week I received a package from Mont-Laurier containing my canvas bag, my moccasins, my knife and friendly messages from my old classmates. It shook me that they were thinking about me and took the trouble to write to me. I suddenly felt as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I can’t ﬁnd the words to explain how these gestures of friendship loosened something inside me, but I know you’ll understand.

My teacher, Monsieur Thibeault, sent me a book about Louis Riel. In the front he wrote, “My dear Nipishish, I think you will ﬁnd yourself in this man.” Louis Riel has been a wonderful discovery for me, and I’ve spent a long time thinking about life and this man. I call him a man but he was much more than that. He was a visionary who was white and Indian at the same time, who didn’t hesitate to sacriﬁce his life to stand up for his double heritage and his hope for a just society for his people. He was imprisoned and hanged.

Louis Riel was a Métis, just like me. He was born in 1844, exactly a hundred years before me. He wrote that one’s homeland is the most important thing in the world, and to take it from its people is as terrible as snatching little children from their mother just when they need her most. And that the government of Canada is guilty of doing exactly that to the Métis people.

Pinamen, there are no bounds to my love for you. This letter comes from my heart.

Love,
Nipishish

I CAN’T SLEEP. There’s a strange, heavy silence hanging over Manie’s house. It’s dark out, but the darkness is thick and mysterious, like the still water of a deep lake.

The house makes cracking noises. Outside, the wind is blowing up. I turn my head to the window and listen carefully, like a hunter on the alert. I hear a far-off growling — a low and constant rumbling, like a giant drum beaten by a shaman above the mountain.

The rumbling gets louder, swells. Now it’s above the lake.

A storm is coming.

Suddenly there’s a huge clap of thunder, powerful as a blacksmith’s hammer beating hot metal on an anvil. I jump. My ears are ringing. The house shudders and the windows tremble. A ﬂash of sulfur explodes, zigzags across the sky with a long metallic streak that ﬁlls the room with blue light. There are more tremors, each one more impressive than the last. The earth trembles beneath me. Lightning cracks like a giant whip in the empty air.

Then the clouds open. Heavy drops of rain hail down on the roof and the porch and thud heavily on the ground.

I get up and creep to the window. I stand behind the armchair, my hands resting on the headrest. A resounding clap of thunder and lightning light up the houses, the deserted street, the dark earth and the band ofﬁce. Its shabby entrance hall is lit up in front of my eyes. Then everything goes black again.

A plan has been simmering inside me for a long time. Tonight I will move into action. It is now or never. This storm is like a gift from heaven.

I slip on my trousers, my shirt. I put on Sam’s rubber boots, his big gray rain slicker that covers me from head to foot.

What else do I need? My bag, a handful of wooden matches. Then I grab the ax that Manie keeps next to the wood box and slip out the back door.

Water streams down my coat. My hair and face are soaked. I go along the house and crouch beside the porch. I am as invisible as an owl in the night, hidden by a thick black spruce. I squat down and wait. I listen and watch.

The thunder comes again and a streak of lightning lights up the road. In the blink of an eye I have seen everything. The village is ghostly. I make myself as small as possible and scamper like a ﬁeld mouse. I don’t need the light anymore. I know the way by heart. I run in the beaten-down sand up to the door of the band ofﬁce. I huddle down against the cement foundation and catch my breath. No one is around.

The plywood has been nailed solidly to the door. I wedge the blade of the ax between the board and the window frame. I push with my shoulder until the nails give way on one side. I push harder until the panel opens up a bit and then I slip through like a marten. I pull it closed as best as I can and squat down, leaning against the sheet of plywood.

The ﬂoor smells musty, like bleach and something else I can’t identify. The smell turns my stomach.

Suddenly I realize why it makes me feel sick. It’s the same stinking disinfectant they used at the residential school to wash the wooden ﬂoors of the dormitory.

There’s no time to lose. I go past the reception counter into the manager’s ofﬁce. The door is open. I push his chair over to the wall and pull open the middle drawer of his desk. I roll up the sleeves of my raincoat and take out my matches, turning my back to shield the match from the window. It explodes into ﬂame with a ﬂick of my thumbnail, and the sudden light scares me. I hold the match in my right hand and rummage through the drawer with the other. I feel around through sheets of papers, pencils, paper clips. I recognize the stapler, the scissors. The match is burning down quickly. The ﬂame is getting weaker, it’s burning my thumb. I blow it out and throw the burnt-out match on the ﬂoor.

Then I start again.

I rummage around quickly. Could he have taken the key home with him? I remember the manager throwing the key in this drawer…

I take a deep breath and grope around some more.

Here it is! I’ve got it.

I hurry over to the second cabinet against the wall. The heavy drawer rolls out smoothly on the metal runners.

I have forgotten about the storm outside. I know more or less where my ﬁle is. I can still see William’s hand putting the folder in the drawer.

I light another match and hold it upright like a candle so it doesn’t burn down too quickly. My eyes run quickly over the letters. D, E, F, G…J, K…

I slow down. Lahache…Lalo…Larivière! Pierre Larivière. I empty the bundle of papers into my bag and put back the empty ﬁle.

I am going to take what belongs to me. I want to know what the government knows about me that I don’t know myself.

Now my father’s. Shipu. It should be at the back, and my mother’s, too.

Crack! Another match ﬂares. There’s a strong smell of sulfur in the room.

I ﬁnd the S’s with no problem. I take the papers from his ﬁle. It’s thick. My bag is getting heavy, but I’m happy. I blow out the match and light another. Now for my mother. Flore St. Amour. I leaf through the folders. Saganash, Schecapio, Simon — no St. Amour.

I start again. I can scarcely see anything in the weak halo of light. I’m hot in my raincoat. My vision starts to blur.

Suddenly, out of instinct, I shake the match. It goes out. My heart sticks up into my throat like a big rock.

I’ve heard the sound of a car driving through a puddle of water.

I listen for the sounds of the storm. I can’t hear anything except the rain beating against the window. I close the ﬁle drawer, put the key back in the desk. I put everything back more or less the way I found it and sweep my eyes over the ofﬁce one last time. On the desk there is an envelope stamped Conﬁdential. I tuck it in my bag.

I feel as though I’ve been here forever. I have to get out fast. When I get to the plywood, I listen and look out, scanning the darkness. I think I can see a darker patch near my house.

I walk along the cold sand. It’s still very dark, but I get the feeling something is going on. I’m cowering like an animal trying to blend into its surroundings.

Then I see a tiny yellow ﬂame right ahead of me. I can see two bright small dots side by side. They turn red, turn pale, blink out like ﬁreﬂies on a hot summer evening.

There are two people sitting in a car parked in front of Manie’s house.

I duck back against one of the houses. If they have ﬂashlights, I’m caught for sure. I try to stay calm.

The rain has almost stopped. The thunder has passed. I can feel my bag clutched against my chest. I know it’s almost daybreak. The blackness is thinning out.

“Psst! Psst!”

A shiver goes down my back. I turn my head. A shadow moves behind me.

“Psst! Nipishish! Over here!”

It’s Tom. What is he doing here? Somehow I manage to crawl backwards, clutching my bag. I feel as though I’m making a lot of noise.

“Come here, quick!”

We crouch down and sneak around the corner of the building, out of the view of the two men in the car. We slip between the Hudson’s Bay Company buildings as far as the dock and follow the shore of the lake. Daylight is just tracing a pale thin line on the horizon. I can hear the lapping of the rough water. I follow Tom blindly, glued to his heels. He is quick and nimble. We hurry on in silence.

At the end of the path we turn and head up into the pine forest.

I feel better here. The path is well traveled. The smell of the lake is replaced by the scent of evergreens.

Now I know where we’re going.

We burst into Tom’s tent like two hunters returning home after a good day in the forest. Without saying a word, we take off our rain jackets and our boots and hang them up to dry. Tom puts three birch logs in the stove and stokes up the ﬁre. I pour two mugs of lukewarm tea and kneel on the thick carpet of pine boughs. Tom lights the candle. Our shadows are huge against the canvas wall of the tent.

I run my ﬁngers through my hair to untangle it and dry it. It feels good.

“Kitchimiguetsh, Tom! Thank you!”

His face wrinkles up in a big smile. His eyes are full of goodness, and he puts a big hand on my shoulder.

“You’re safe here. They won’t come this far.”

I look in my bag to make sure the papers are still there. I see the envelope stamped Conﬁdential and take it out. Tom watches me closely. Inside there’s a typed sheet of paper folded in three. I move closer to the candle and read it to myself. It’s addressed to George McLeod, Band Manager.

Dear Sir:

Further to the meeting held in our ofﬁces in Ottawa last March 20, this is to conﬁrm that the Ministry of Lands and Forests authorizes logging of the pine forest on the edge of the reserve. The contract has been granted to the Canadian International Paper Company. The loggers will arrive on October 30 and the site will stay open for four weeks.

We know that the Indians value this forest. We must again use surprise to our advantage and put before them a fait accompli.

We in Ottawa are assured of your discretion and usual cooperation in this matter. If there is a problem, you can count on the support of the government authorities and the police.

We already have an agreement with a developer for the construction of a hunting and ﬁshing resort as soon as there is lake access. The Algonquin must understand that this tourist enterprise will contribute to the economic development of the reserve, of which there is urgent need, and to the well-being of the whole region.

Indians who wish to work on the site will of course be given priority in terms of employment and, later, to work as tourist guides, camp maintenance workers and boat operators, etc. They will be provided with a future.

Hugh Richardson, Deputy Minister
Ministry of Indian and Northern Affairs

I can’t believe my eyes. I read it again to make sure I have understood.

The little stove growls like a cat in heat. It’s hot in the tent.

They want to take down the trees in the pine forest, dig up the ground and ﬂatten everything to open a road to the lake.

I read the letter to Tom. His lined face is puzzled. His eyes are worried. The words rasp against my tight throat like the keel of a canoe scraping over a rocky river bottom.

There’s a long, anxious silence.

Outside it’s dawn. The crows are screaming and bickering at each other. Tom stands up and looms above me. His head blurs in the shadows of the ridge of the tent. I hear his angry voice above me.

“We’ll wait for them here, that’s all we can do. They are going to cut down our trees, defame the graves of our ancestors. We’re the ones who are going to rot away like cut branches, and when the sap has drained out of us, we’ll die. This is a sacrilege, Nipishish! When the creator of all things made the land, the lakes, the rivers, the air, the plants and trees, he made us — us! — to be the guardians of the earth. This time we will stand together. They will not do this to us again!”

Then his voice calms down, grows steady and determined. Now it’s his wisdom speaking

“But for now we’ll wait. It’s best to let the storm pass for the moment.”

Tom stashes my bag inside a birchbark basket, but I keep the letter from the deputy minister and put it in the pocket in my raincoat.

“Come with me,” he says.

I follow him into the forest. He hides the basket in a hole well concealed between the gnarled roots of a large pine.

“We are the only people who know about this spot,” he says. “You can come back here when the time is right.”

The sun is up. It’s going to be a ﬁne day. Tom goes back to his tent, but it’s time for me to go home.

I go up the path. I’m tired, but content. I’ve ﬁnally got the ﬁles.

I take big strides in my boots, as if I have wings. The letter in my pocket feels like a stick of dynamite.

The path comes out at the churchyard. There’s a plastic-covered notice board nailed to the middle of the chapel door. The priest uses it to announce events and the time for mass.

I quickly slide the letter under the plastic and carry on my way, whistling.

THROUGH MY SLEEP, I hear someone knocking at the door. The sound seems to come from far away.

Knock, knock, knock! I don’t have time to react before someone shoves in the door with their shoulder. Three people rush in. I am sitting on my bed, hurriedly putting on my trousers. I walk toward them in a daze as I button my shirt.

First I recognize William, then two giants from the mounted police, the same ones who patrol the reserve. Through the window I can see a patrol car parked in front of the band ofﬁce.

The sun is already high in the sky. It must be the middle of the afternoon. I have been sleeping as soundly as a bear in its den.

“Pierre Larivière?” It’s the older ofﬁcer, the one with the square head, bristly moustache and eyes like a husky.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s Pierre Larivière,” William says nervously. “I know him.”

The second ofﬁcer, thin as a bulrush, noses around the house. I watch him out of the corner of my eye while his boss stares at me.

“You have a damn good view from here,” he says. “You can see the entire reserve. Where were you last night?”

I don’t answer.

“Did you hear or see anything unusual? Anything suspicious or out of the ordinary?”

I pretend to think hard.

“I heard thunder and I saw lightning!”

“The band ofﬁce was broken into last night,” William says. “A conﬁdential dispatch was stolen. The letter was found attached to the door of the church.”

“Stop! You’ve said enough.”

The older ofﬁcer’s green eyes are leveled right at me. He leans forward until his face is two inches from mine.

“Do you have any idea, Larivière, what smart-aleck could have done that? Steal a letter and stick it on the church door?”

I shrug. I purse my lips and frown.

“At the church?”

“Yes!”

“Did you ask the priest?”

He turns as red as a maple leaf in autumn.

“Don’t try to get smart with me, Larivière. It’s me, Sergeant John Macdonald, who asks the questions.” He jabs his big ﬁnger in my stomach. “I have mighty sharp teeth, and when I bite, I don’t let go. I’m looking for the guilty party, and I know I’m on the right track.”

The thin ofﬁcer is still snooping around. He looks under the mattresses, lifts the blankets with his gloved ﬁngers, peeks in the cupboards, pats down the clothes hanging on a nail near the back door.

“Nothing here, chief!’

“I’ll take you next door,” William says to him. “The neighbor has a good view of the reserve, too.”

“Okay, let’s go. We’re going to go through this reserve with a ﬁne-tooth comb. Larivière, we’re watching you. Understand?”

The nosy guy brushes off his hands as if he’s touched something dirty. William goes out last, without looking back. I close the door behind them and lean against it.

He’s on the right track? He must be blufﬁng. He’s just here because this is the closest house to the band ofﬁce.

My eyes are drawn to the wood stove. Something isn’t right…

Suddenly I go pale. My legs are as weak as a willow branch.

The ax.

I left my ax in the band ofﬁce.

A cold sweat breaks out over my whole body. There are hundreds of axes on the reserve. Every family has one, but everyone knows their own, and a sharp eye would recognize Manie’s.

If the police ﬁnd out it’s mine, they’ll throw me in jail on the spot.

They couldn’t ask for a better way to shut me up.

TOM AND I are putting up our tent on the edge of the pine forest, right where the dirt road ends. We carefully tie the long poles together to make a frame.

In the reserve below, dozens of pairs of eyes are watching us from behind their curtains. We don’t know whether they approve of what we are doing or not, but it makes no difference.We have made our decision. We will block the road into the forest day and night. To get to it, the loggers will have to mow us down with their bulldozers. We will root ourselves to the ground just like the trees around us.

I am very calm, like a forest at the end of the day when the wind falls.

We mark a big circle on the ground and hang canvas from the crossed poles. The children come to help us. They ﬁll their arms with ﬁr boughs that we heap in a circle.

We are going to light a massive ﬁre right at our front door. A ﬁre that will burn for as long as we are here.

The manager of the band council rushes over in his truck. He is white with anger.

“What are you doing here?” he shouts.

We say nothing.

“You don’t have a permit to put up a tent here. It isn’t allowed!”

We say nothing.

He turns around, gets into his truck, slams the door and drives back to his ofﬁce. We know he’ll get right on the phone to call the police and the government.

I place a big sign in full view beside our tent:

YOU ARE IN INDIAN TERRITORY.
WE WILL ACT ACCORDING TO
OUR OWN LAWS. WE ARE THE
GUARDIANS OF OUR LAND.

Tom and I keep watch, feeding the ﬁre with big branches of cedar. The ﬁre throws up clouds of sparks, and the ﬂames trace a long yellow path on the still waters of the lake. The heavy beat of Tom’s drum carries far across the water and echoes over the valley.

• • •

On the morning of October 30, we are woken by a hellish racket. We come out of our tent.

In front of us two mounted police patrol cars have parked across the road, as well as a van full of policemen in uniform. Behind them is a yellow bus full of loggers and a huge ﬂatbed truck carrying a bulldozer. I am impressed by such a show of steel and strength.

The policemen run forward and quickly form a line between us and the bus. The loggers get out one at a time and gather around a man with a white hardhat, the foreman.

The men look tough. Although the morning is chilly, several of them show off their muscular bare arms. They are dressed in cotton outﬁts that cling to their round stomachs.

The patrol car radio crackles with messages we don’t understand.

The police are silent under their dark visors. They have clubs and look ready to act at the slightest signal. The loggers are making jokes, bursting into deep laughter.

Nothing happens. The radio crackles some more. We have all the time in the world, but the loggers are getting impatient.

“We want to work!”

They want to earn their livelihood. And what we want is to not lose ours.

Two ofﬁcers break away from the pack and come toward us. They’re the ones who interrogated me in Manie’s house. They walk with a ﬁrm step, their shoulders square, their jaws jutting out.

The corners of Sergeant Macdonald’s mouth are drawn back in a scornful smile.

“Well, well. If it isn’t my friend Larivière! So now you’re having fun building barriers.”

I don’t ﬂinch. I just watch him.

“Still dumb as a carp, eh?”

I say nothing.

“If you’re smart, you’ll open your trap and answer me.”

I say nothing.

“Larivière, before I arrest you for disorderly conduct, obstructing justice and refusing to cooperate with police, I want to alert you to your rights.”

“Your laws are not mine!” I reply.

“The laws are the same for everyone.”

“That’s not what it says on my sign!”

He looks at it and scowls.

“That means nothing. If you don’t open this road right now, we will do it by force, and you will both be arrested. You will go to prison.”

Right then there is a movement in the crowd. The loggers move aside for a tall girl with long blonde hair and a microphone in her hand. A chubby bald man trails behind her, sweating as he struggles along with a large camera planted on his right shoulder like a case of beer.

All eyes are glued to the unexpected arrivals. I am suddenly ﬁlled with new hope.

“Sergeant?” shouts an ofﬁcer.

“What is it?”

“It’s Radio-Canada! Television!”

“Television?”

“They want to meet someone called…” He reads from the bottom of a letter. “Nipishish…” he mutters under his breath.

Macdonald takes the letter and reads it. His eyes darken.

“Make them wait. Tell them that I have other cats to kick this morning…I mean, tell them that I’ll see them later.”

But the camera is already rolling. It sweeps across the reserve, the trees, the police, the loggers, the standoff, while the reporter talks non-stop into her microphone.

“This another one of your lousy tricks, Larivière?” the sergeant says to me in a low voice. “Bringing in the TV people?”

I smile to myself. His voice hardens.

“Larivière, I’ve had enough. I’m arresting you on the charge of —”

He stops. A look of panic sweeps over his face. He’s looking over my shoulder but I don’t know what has attracted his attention. The loggers are silent, their arms slack. We are surrounded by a strange silence ﬁlled with rumblings.

Tom begins to beat his drum softly, and the sound seeps through the pine forest like a spell.

Then I see a large group approaching.

Who are they? Where have they come from?

It’s our people! Indians! First I see a dozen, but then there are more and more of them. The crowd swells like a herd of caribou on the tundra. They are coming slowly but surely, the women in their plaid shawls and dresses, the men in their worn cloth trousers, their ﬂannel shirts, their high logging boots. Several are wearing peaked caps or felt hats pulled down over their ears. It is a sea of sunburnt faces and thick black hair.

The sight sends shivers over my whole body. I can see Manie, Sam, and behind them Charlotte and Pinamen walking with an older woman. Indians are coming from every direction. They’re coming on the road, pouring out of the houses on the reserve. They’re coming in canoes ﬁlled to the brim. They’re coming out of the forest behind me.

The pine forest is crawling with Indians — old ones, women holding children by the hand or in tikinagans. Chizoo, Mowat, Wawatee, Loon, Chabot, Kistabish, Brascoupé, Commanda, Papati… They are all here, as well as several others that I don’t know. It is as if all the Indians on earth are coming here this morning to stand together.

Then I see William dressed in his red-and-black checked lumber jacket. He’s walking with a ﬁrm step, his head high. Nancy and the children are by his side. He’s carrying a canvas bag over his shoulder.

He walks over and looks me right in the eye. Then he takes an ax out of his bag, holds it by the handle and with one blow sinks the blade into a nearby log.

It’s the ax I left behind in the band ofﬁce.

Each family stands in front of one of the big pines bordering the forest. There are silent Indians everywhere, standing together in pride and solidarity in front of the rows of police, the loggers, the trucks.

We have taken over. We are here, the cameras are rolling, the young woman has stopped talking.

Tom holds the people’s drum. He holds it high like the sun and beats it softly. The deep lines on his face are the dark furrows of our land, and from his lips comes a lament that is carried on the vibrations of the moosehide. In our own language Tom speaks to Kitchimanitou, the creator of all things. He speaks to the spirits of our brave ancestors, to the trees, the plants, the animals, the allies that many of us have forgotten. He brings them back into our memory.

A woman is standing back a bit to my right. It must be Mathilde, Pinamen’s mother. She is exactly as I imagined her — short, her Attikamek beret down to her ears. Her bony hand leans on the knob of a gray branch that serves as her walking stick. She has the same intelligent, bright eyes as Pinamen.

Our glances meet. Then suddenly her eyes light up, and she gives me a wide smile that warms me like the sun breaking through in the spring.

Manie stands between me and Tom. Her eyes are shining in a way that I haven’t seen in a long time.

Manie has given us back our pride. For once I feel like a worthy descendant of my Anishnabe ancestors. I am a man with a great lineage. The earth, the water, the air are my very ﬂesh, my breath, my blood.

Only the drum sounds now in the morning air. The police receive the order to withdraw quietly.

“Cutting down a living tree is like killing an Indian,” I say to the sergeant as he turns away from me.

I know the loggers, the trucks, the bulldozer and the police will be back. But today we have won, and things will never be the same again.

Someone brushes up lightly against my shoulder. I turn and see Pinamen beside me, and she slides her hand into mine.

A tous nos enfants, qui ont tant besoin d’espoir, et particulièrement aux enfants du Labrador.

“HEY, NIPISHISH!”

It’s William. He’s waving at me from the steps of the band ofﬁce.

I stop and turn, but I don’t go over. He hesitates, then trots over to me, his big stomach bouncing.

“Nipishish, wait.” He’s sweating, his face is red. We walk together slowly. “You know I’ve just been made band manager.”

“Yes, congratulations.”

We walk on in silence while he catches his breath.

“I heard that old Tom was sick,” he says.

“Yes. He’s dying. I’m going to see him now. Why don’t you come with me? It’ll make him happy to see you even for a short —”

“No, I don’t have time. I’ll go later. Ever since the break-in at the ofﬁce, things have been crazy. Agents from the ministry on one side, the police on the other. I don’t know which way to turn anymore. My ofﬁce is buzzing like a wasp’s nest.”

William shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Then he puts his hand on my arm. We stop walking. He looks around and lowers his voice.

“Nipishish, listen. You’ve seen the police and the agents. They’re not here to fool around. They are doing a complete inventory of all the ﬁles in the ofﬁce. When they ﬁnish, they’re moving the ﬁles to the main ofﬁce in Ottawa where the security is better.”

He looks at me.

“So?”

“I checked the ﬁles on you — yours and your father’s. Sooner or later they’re going to ﬁnd out those ﬁles are empty. Sergeant Macdonald already has it in for you…”

I don’t say anything, but my heart is beating hard.

“It would be best if you cleared out of here fast,” William insists. “You’re a Métis, Nipishish, don’t forget. No one is going to lift a ﬁnger to come to your defence. No one! You’re on your own. If I were you, I’d go back and live in town.”

“No! My place is here and you know it. I don’t want to leave Pinamen. I will never go back to the city. I’d be like a groundhog hiding in its hole.”

“If you would just think about it…”

I look him straight in the eye.

“I swear on the head of my father, they won’t get me. Do you hear me? I will do anything to stay out of prison. Once is enough!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t get mad.”

William is perspiring, and his hair is sticking to his forehead. He pulls an old plaid handkerchief out of his back pocket and wipes his face. I can smell his hot breath.

“How about a deal between friends?” he says then. “You give me the ﬁles under the table. I’ll take them back to the ofﬁce. I’ll tell them I found them in the garbage and ask them to forget the whole thing.”

I don’t know what bloody game he’s playing at.

“Why have all these people come all the way from Ottawa about these ﬁles? Files that are just about me, about my family? Why?”

“Hey, I don’t know. They’re ofﬁcial papers, Nipishish. They’re government documents, police documents. They’re valuable. It’s serious business.”

“I’m beginning to think those documents are more important to them than they are to me. Why else would they send you to bargain with me like this?” I turn my back on William and head down the path to the pine forest.

I need to think, and I need to see Tom.

“Okay!” William shouts. “You’re the boss! All I want is a little peace. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

TOM IS LYING on a thick mattress of fresh ﬁr boughs. Manie, Charlotte, Sam, Pinamen and I are at his side. He’s wearing his best cloth trousers, his plaid ﬂannel shirt and his moosehide moccasins embroidered with ﬂowers. His bear-tooth necklace hangs around his neck.

The forest is silent and still, as if it is waiting for some grand event. Tom wants to die the way our ancestors did. He wants to see death come, and go to meet it as a friend.

He already leaves us for long periods, when he seems to go deep down into himself. He’s dreaming about his long life as a hunter, a trapper, about all those trips that he’s made by canoe, on snowshoe or on foot, all the loads he’s carried.

Then the air whistles in his throat like a violent wind hammering through the rocky ridges of the mountains. Heavy beads of sweat form on his forehead and gray temples.

Manie wipes his face with a damp towel. She talks to him in a gentle, hushed voice. Tom regains consciousness again. He smiles. His eyes are wide open now, calm as the surface of the lake just before night falls.

“Miguetsh, Manie! Thank you. It’s good to have you here.” He wets his lips. “You know that I only have one regret…” Manie stops. She places the towel on his forehead and waits. “That I wasn’t able to marry you this autumn!” He smiles.

“Tom, you never change!”

“No…I don’t regret a thing. I thank the great creator for everything. I have had the great privilege of living a long life, and now I’m like an old tree in the forest. One day it only takes the smallest breeze to make it topple, but when it falls, it opens the way for the sun to reach the ground so other trees can grow.”

His voice becomes anxious.

“Manie, I regret nothing, but I am sad. I am afraid for the future of the Anishnabe.”

Exhausted, Tom shuts his eyes. Only his short breaths tell us that he is still alive. The deep lines on his face relax. Kneeling at his side, I wonder where his spirit is. What territory is it traveling through?

At midnight he opens his eyes again. He looks at each one of us in turn. Sam lights the candles. We look like ghosts bathed in the yellow light.

Tom motions to Manie, and she leans over as he whispers his last wishes. She sits up again slowly, her cheeks glistening. She kisses him on the forehead, one hand on his head, the other over his hands that are crossed on his stomach. She cries for old Tom as if she were crying for her own child.

While Charlotte, Pinamen and Sam say goodbye and kiss his forehead, Manie hands me the towel.

“Nipishish, you’ll stay with him until he dies. It’s what he wants.”

I am deeply moved, and happy to share these ﬁnal moments alone with him.

Pinamen is the last to leave the tent. I am standing near the door. She folds herself into my arms and I hold her tightly.

“I’ll see you when the sun comes up,” I say.

“I’ll wait for you.”

I go back to Tom. I wipe his hot forehead. Nothing matters but this. My heart beats slowly and heavily in my chest. I feel very calm.

Tom places his hand on my leg. It’s as big as a bear’s paw.

“Nipishish…” He murmurs my name softly, like a trickle of water sliding over pebbles.

“Yes, Tom.”

“You have a ﬁne name… Nipishish…Little River. One day you will take the name your father bore so proudly. Shipu…the river. But you will be Mishtashipu, the big river, the one that guides us. When that day comes, you will know it in your heart. It will be your secret and your strength.”

“Miguetsh, Tom.”

I wipe his feverish brow. I think about what he has just said to me. I hear the wind wailing in the treetops.

“Nipishish, I leave you my drum and my song, my riﬂe, my tent, my canoe. Everything I have is yours. You will keep those things now. The drum, Nipishish, will speak to you in your dreams. Listen to it, because it is the beating of the heart of our people. The portage you must take is inside you. Don’t look anywhere else. When you want to talk to me, go into the forest very quietly, like a bird. Sit down and wait. Be patient. Open your eyes and your ears, breathe in the scent of the earth and the pine needles. I will be in your heart and in the trees, in the wind and in the shadows of the clouds. I’ll be very close.”

The smell of the green ﬁrs and the wood crackling in the little stove ﬁlls the tent. I feel like an eagle with its huge wings spread, circling high overhead. I see a huge territory below. I soar right inside myself. My spirit and my body are one…

The snow around me is thick. There’s no sound, not even the wind. The trees are still. The air is very pure, clear as a thin layer of ice on the edge of a stream. Everything is white and clean.

My snowshoes sink into the snow and leave tidy prints. I am on Sam’s territory, on the shore of Lac aux Quenouilles. I stop, dazzled by the white light reﬂecting off the blue snow.

Suddenly, in a break in the tangle of alders lining the lake, I see an enormous hare sitting on its haunches. He stares at me with his round, blood-red eyes. He sits straight up. He’s not afraid of me. I glance away for just a second and when I look back, he has disappeared. I follow his trail through the bush. I can’t ﬁnd him, but all around the clearing and on the edge of the frozen lake there are trails that cross and go off in every direction, like so many portages where the big rivers meet. And I know that this territory is very rich because so many hares live here, and I’m happy.

Tom’s hand goes limp on my leg and I am pulled out of my daydream. The old man has closed his eyes for good.

I kiss him on the forehead. Tom’s life has ﬂown up to paradise with the other great hunters, but his spirit is still here in the tent. I can feel his comforting presence, and I stay like this for a long time.

The little stove gets cold. The ﬂame of the last candle ﬂickers and then goes out. A pale light seeps through the canvas of the tent. I can see the outline of Tom’s body in the shadows. I cover him with the blanket that’s rolled up at his feet. Then I go out.

A long fringe of red lines the horizon to the east. A new day appears already.

I take a deep breath and thank the great creator of all things for giving me life.

PINAMEN IS WAITING for me. Her face is solemn, her black hair falls over her shoulders. She looks very beautiful.

“Tom is dead,” I tell her.

“Yes. Manie is coming with the women. They’re getting ready now.”

She’s cradling a canvas bag in her hands. The sack is moving.

“What’s that?”

“It’s for you!”

I open it, look in.

“A puppy! What is he doing here?”

Inside, a ball of black fur squirms and wags his tail. I pick him up. He wriggles like a ﬁsh out of water. I rest him against my shoulder and he buries his cold muzzle in my neck, licks my chin and nose with his raspy tongue.

“What do you think?” Pinamen asks, stroking his back.

“He’s magniﬁcent! Full of energy.”

“He’s yours. I think he already likes you.”

“Mine? Where did you ﬁnd him?”

“Manie was keeping him for you. Tom asked her to. She says he’ll help you get over Tom’s death.”

“He’s beautiful. I’m going to call him Mush, because Tom was a great moose hunter.”

I put the dog back in the warm bag and carry the bag over my shoulder. Pinamen and I walk hand in hand along the path lined with pine needles. The smell of the resin and undergrowth are heavy in the misty morning air.

The reserve is still asleep. The fog is stretching and lifting off the surface of the lake.

Suddenly Pinamen grips my hand more tightly. An RCMP patrol car appears at the end of the dirt road. It slowly jolts its way toward us, its headlights still on.

We can’t turn back. Besides, the police have deﬁnitely seen us.

We walk along the narrow path beside the road in single ﬁle to give them room. Our faces are dark, our mouths clamped shut, our heads lowered.

The car pulls alongside us. The driver lowers his window, stops.

It’s Sergeant Macdonald. He looks at me coldly. There’s spit in the corners of his mouth, like a snake’s.

Black exhaust runs out of the tailpipe and stinks up the air around us. We keep walking straight ahead.

“Hey, lovebirds! I want to talk to you!”

We stop. He backs up and sticks his head out the window.

I don’t like police cars. They remind me of Mont-Laurier. I see the grill that separates the back of the car from the front. The passengers are kept in the back like wild animals in a cage.

I clench my ﬁsts. My anger is smoldering like a hot log ready to burst into ﬂames at the slightest gust of air. I hate these men, but I can’t let them see it.

I wait. Macdonald looks Pinamen up and down with a nasty smile.

“Yeah, you don’t waste any time, do you, young man. Spending the night under the stars. I know what you’ve been up to…”

I say nothing.

“What are you hiding in your bag there?”

Mush barks. I take him out and press him to my shoulder.

“A dog! You’ll have to get a licence for him. All dogs have to have a tag with a registration number. That’s the law. Didn’t you know? No? So now I’m telling you, Larivière. No tag, and we’ll destroy the dog on sight.”

I’ve heard enough.

“Of course! I understand perfectly. Every dog needs a tag the way every Indian needs a band number.”

Macdonald gives me a crooked smile. He takes a drag on his cigarette and blows out a puff of smoke.

“I can see the wheels turning in that little head of yours, Larivière.”

I say nothing.

“And what are your plans now, apart from whispering sweet nothings to your girlfriend?”

He’s no longer smiling. His jaw is hard and he points his ﬁnger at me, his voice clipped, like he’s giving orders in the army.

“Larivière, I’m watching you. The break-in at the band ofﬁce has your handwriting on it. You’re stirring up the Indians against the whites. The barrier to stop the loggers, that was all your idea. But you’re not out of the woods yet! First chance I get, I’m clapping cuffs on you, I swear it. Goodbye, Larivière!”

I want to spit in his face and tell him that I am a free man, I have nothing to apologize for. But I hold my tongue. Every muscle in my body is in a knot, and my ears are buzzing. I know he’s baiting me.

Pinamen takes my arm and tugs it gently. I put Mush slowly back in the bag.

Suddenly I stand at attention. I stare straight ahead and salute him.

“Yes, my captain! Whatever you say!”

I click my heels and turn my back, but not before I see him blanch.

In a rage, he roars like a bear in a cage, ﬂings opens the door and spits out his cigarette, ready to charge.

Pinamen stands between us. We are in the heart of the reserve. Hundreds of invisible eyes are glued to us, I can feel them.

At that moment, the little high-pitched bell on the chapel begins to ring. We both freeze at the shrill sound.

The bell is for Tom. One by one the peals ring out over the reserve and echo off the water like shots from a riﬂe.

Men and women slowly come out of their homes and walk toward the chapel where Manie and the women are gathered in their long black shawls. The shadowy procession disappears into the pine forest.

The policeman hasn’t moved. He leans his hands on the half-open car door, one foot in the car, the other in the mud. He looks ridiculous.

“Who died?” he stammers. He’s the only one who doesn’t know.

Pinamen and I carry on our way.

Tom saved me this time. But what about next time?

• • •

The priest is not in a good mood. He wants to bury Tom in sacred ground, in the little fenced-in cemetery beside the chapel. But the elders have decided they will respect Tom’s last wishes and bury him at the foot of a tree, dressed in his best moosehide clothing, rolled in a red-and-white Hudson’s Bay blanket.

Old Mathieu beats the drum. The funeral ceremony is solemn. Our grandfather the sun is setting, blazing like a huge ﬁre around us. When our grandmother the moon appears, we will sing our grief, all gathered around the ﬁre and the drum.

PINAMEN AND I have been in the pine forest since dawn. We took down Tom’s tent and rolled up the canvas so there would be no trace on the earth of this man. He’ll live in our memories now. I gathered up the drum, the riﬂe, his long ﬁshing net, the little stove. Only the tall skeleton of tent poles remains. They belong to the forest and they will be useful to someone else who will come some day to put up his house here.

There is one last thing for me to do. An idea came to me last night when I was with Tom. The wise old man sowed a little seed in me, and now it is blossoming like a snowdrop in spring. It has revived a dream that I have had ever since residential school, and as I took down Tom’s tent with Pinamen, I suddenly saw that this dream might be possible. I hardly dare to believe it, but if Pinamen wants it, too, together we can make it work.

I scan the area carefully to make absolutely sure we are alone. I can hear nothing but the breeze rippling through the treetops. I am on my guard even though the whole reserve is in mourning, and I am the only one who is authorized to go up to Tom’s tent, because I am his heir.

Everything seems calm, but I know there are always prying eyes around.

I take Pinamen by the hand and lead her through the woods. We take cover under the wide branches of the big pine. I recognize it easily.

“Pinamen, look,” I say. I plunge my hands between the swollen roots and pull out the birchbark basket. I put it down on the ground between us.

“What is it, Nipishish?”

I take out the thick bundle of papers and quickly put them in my canvas bag.

Then, kneeling on the pine needles, I tell her my secret.

“Pinamen, when you were in Manawane at your mother’s, I snuck into the band ofﬁce. It was stormy out and dark, and nobody saw me. I took my ﬁle and my father’s. I looked for my mother’s but couldn’t ﬁnd it. Maybe they don’t keep ﬁles on whites. I had to get out fast because the RCMP were close by. Tom’s the one who showed me this hiding place.”

“Nipishish, this is dangerous. I don’t want you to take all these risks for me. I love you, you know that, and my mother now accepts that we are living together. It doesn’t matter that you are Métis. You could end up in prison…”

I can feel her hands shaking in mine.

“I asked the Ministry of Indian Affairs if I could see these ﬁles and they refused. So I took them. All these papers are about me, Pinamen. They contain information about me, about my father, maybe about my mother. I want to know who I am, where I come from, how my father died and why. Everyone who knew my father speaks of him with respect, but I can tell there’s some secret about him that they don’t know about.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I haven’t been able to read the documents. Here on the reserve, there are eyes everywhere. We live piled on top of each other like sardines. We have to leave the reserve. Live somewhere else.”

“I can ask my mother if we can go to Manawane.”

“Listen, you know Sam and Charlotte aren’t going to their hunting ground this winter because the kids have to go to school. What would you say to spending the whole winter on the trap line?”

I watch her eyes. They are big and round.

“They have a good cabin that we know well, rich territory, even a dog team. We have our inheritance from Tom — a tent, a riﬂe, blankets, a lot of things. We are rich, Pinamen. And Manie will help us.”

Her cheeks turn pink. Her eyes are shining.

“We’ll ﬁnally be alone, you and I. In the forest, at the right time, I can read these documents in peace, far from the police and all these watching eyes.”

Pinamen rises up on her knees. Her head brushes the branches. Suddenly we are in each other’s arms. I can feel her warmth. The scent of pine cones ﬁlls the air. An angry squirrel chatters somewhere in the branches.

“Nipi, I’ll talk to Charlotte about this. I’m sure she’ll agree.”

“I am not very experienced at living in the woods, but I know that together we can do it. Last night, beside Tom, I had a wonderful dream full of animals and snow. That’s what made me decide. I saw a white forest in front of me, a forest of big frozen lakes and faraway mountains disappearing in a blue sky…”

“Nipi, nature is generous. All we need is for her to give us a bit of food. We will be together. We just need to trust in nature, the way our ancestors did.”

I PULL TOM’S canoe out of the water. I’m doing it to keep myself busy, while I sneak glances in the direction of the path.

Suddenly I see Pinamen coming, in a hurry. She has been talking to Manie and Charlotte to ask if we can use the cabin.

I set the canoe on the bank and run to meet her. She is so lit up I don’t even have to ask. She puts her hands on my shoulders and I hold her by the waist.

“They agreed?”

“Yes, let’s get ready to go into the bush as soon as we can.”

“What about Sam?”

“Charlotte spoke to him. He was worried anyway about the cabin and maintaining his trapline. And he didn’t know what he was going to do about the dogs. They’re going to come and visit us with the children.”

“Pinamen, I’m going to trap for you, ﬁsh for you. I’ll bring you beaver, hare, big trout, a moose…”

“A moose?”

“Yes. Anything you want.”

“Let’s eat all together at Manie’s tonight. Sam and Charlotte are going to be there. Then we can get ready to leave.”

The whole family seems excited that we are going into the bush.

“I feel as if I’m going myself!” Manie says. “It’s the best thing you young ones can do. It’s what I did when I was thirteen and I left with Joseph. It wasn’t always easy. We worked hard. I know what it’s like to be hungry, to paddle for weeks, to make portages that last all day… But I regret none of it. I miss the woods. I still have the smell of the ﬁrs embedded in my skin.”

She pauses, looks at us and raises her voice. “Not only that, but you are setting a good example for the ones who just laze around on their backsides on the reserve, ﬁngers up their nose, learning how to live off the government, how to drink and bicker like bear cubs in spring.”

After the meal Sam and I sit on a bench near the stove. He ﬁlls his pipe on his knee, cradles the bowl in his hand. He strikes a match on the stove. He quickly wedges the stem of the pipe between his teeth, places the ﬂame on the well-packed ﬂakes of tobacco and puffs noisily. Then he speaks.

“Nipishish, I inherited my territory from my mother.” He takes a pull on his pipe. “My territory, I know it like the back of my hand. I am going to tell you where to ﬁnd the moose paths, the dens of the bears, the beaver dams, the muskrat burrows…”

He takes time to smoke again. I listen closely.

“I have a good team of ﬁve dogs. They are ﬁne animals. Four young ones that are still wild and the two-year-old lead dog that I’ve started to train. She is high spirited. The dogs will be useful to you for traveling, carrying ﬁrewood and water. You’ll like them, my dogs. I’m entrusting them to you. You’ll become great friends.”

Sam speaks to me as if we are two great hunters. I feel honored, like an adult.

Mush is sitting on my lap. I pat him gently. His fur shines. He’s in a deep sleep.

It’s the police I’m afraid of. They could come searching for me. We have decided to leave early Sunday morning, because they hardly ever patrol the reserve then.

Our plan is well known. The Algonquin are all talking about it at home, but they would never whisper a word to the whites, let alone to the police.

Suddenly, a shadow of doubt passes over me like a wingbeat.

What about William?

I quickly chase this idea out of my head. He would never do that. He was there with his family, protesting with us when we barred the road to the loggers.

No, William would never betray me.

• • •

It’s early morning when we tiptoe out of the reserve. Over the past few days we have packed everything in the back of Sam’s old truck — canvas, canoe, blankets, riﬂe, traps, axes, ﬂour, lard.

Manie and Charlotte hug us goodbye.

“Go on, you young ones. We will come to see you next month.”

Pinamen keeps her bag of clothes with her. She has hidden my ﬁles at the bottom. We leave happy but with tight hearts.

We arrive at the cabin at the beginning of the afternoon. Even the weather is on our side. We bask in the sun’s hot rays. The log cabin is built on a little plateau surrounded by thick ﬁrs and slender spruce trees. It’s big, warm and clean. From the kitchen window you can see the sunrise, the dock and the dog dens below. From the door you can see down the whole length of the lake to the end of the valley.

For the moment, we settle in quickly. We will have plenty of time later to get ourselves organized.

Sam, who has come to help us, doesn’t stay long. He has to go back across the lake, hide his canoe at the end of the bay and get back to the main road that crosses La Vérendrye Park to return to the reserve.

We hurry to ﬁnd a safe place for my ﬁles. Pinamen and I look around — under the mattress, under the roof beams, in the cupboard. Every spot is too easy to ﬁnd.

Then Pinamen has an idea.

“At the bottom of the wood box?”

The big box runs along the wall behind the stove.

“Good idea.”

I take out the big dry logs one at a time. Pinamen puts my secret right at the bottom of the box. I cover it with wood chips and bark and pile the logs back on top.

I feel better already. I’ll read everything once I’m settled, when I feel safe. In the forest there’s no hurry — no hours, days, months.

Just the rising and setting of the sun, the changing of the seasons and the present moment to be lived to the fullest.

WE SLEEP IN the big bed at the back of the cabin, buried under the blankets like foxes in their den.

Finally, we are completely alone. The cabin creaks, but we know the house is solid. Over the years it has stood up under windstorms, cold waves, snow blizzards…

Still, our ears listen for the slightest noise.

“Pinamen?” I murmur her name.

“Yes, Nipishish.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, Nipi. Very, very okay.”

The sound of our voices is reassuring. Pinamen moves closer. I take her in my arms. We know that we are the only ones for miles around, yet we are strangely comfortable. We murmur to each other about what we’re going to do before the lake is covered with ice and the intense cold makes the bark of the frozen trees crack. We forget the blackness. There is nothing but Pinamen and me.

“Tomorrow I’ll put out Tom’s big net. I’ll catch a lot of ﬁsh for us and to feed the dogs. Sam says they eat like gluttons.”

“We’ll need lots of wood.”

“Yes…I’m going to clear the path on the trap line. Sam explained it to me. It runs around the lake. He crosses the river and goes deep into the mountain, then comes back to the cabin along the other shore.”

“I’m going to have a trap line, too. I’m going to set snares in the ﬁr grove. I used to do this with my mother when I was little. I’m sure there are lots of hares around here.”

Her last words come out slowly, her words heavy. She is asleep in my arms. I feel a delicious sleep come over me, too, and I sink into it gently.

Suddenly we are jolted awake.

How long have we been sleeping? We listen hard, rigid.

What is it? The dogs are snarling, and then they start to bark angrily. The sound of their barking echoes in the cabin. We can hear them clawing at the porch.

Mush runs to the door, yapping.

What could be going on out there to provoke them this way?

I sit on the edge of the bed. My heart is beating more normally, but I am still worried. The wind has fallen. Through the little window in the door I can see that the sky is clear, deep, brilliant. A soft light ﬂoods the room, and a huge moon splits the sky right above the dark line of the mountains. It traces a wide silver ribbon over the middle of the lake. The trees cast tangled shadows on the shore.

The dogs below are straining at the ends of their chains. They’re howling, their fangs gleaming, their muzzles pointed toward the opposite end of the lake where the path leads to the road. I scan the shore but it’s too far. I can’t see anything.

Little by little the animals calm down, sniff and whimper one last time. Then they fold their tails between their paws and go back to their dens, their heads drooping in disappointment.

The lead dog leaps onto the ﬂat roof of her den that she uses as a lookout. She stays on watch, her ears pricked. She’s slender, a purebred. The long fur on her neck bristles.

Mush steps on my feet with his warm paws. The ﬂoor is cold. I build up the ﬁre and go back to bed with Mush in my arms. Pinamen is sitting up waiting.

“Do you know what it was?”

“No. I couldn’t see anything. Maybe a wolf on the prowl or a moose that swam across the lake. One thing’s for sure, our dogs are good watchdogs. Too bad for anyone who tries to get too close to the cabin.”

In the morning I get up early. On my way back from fetching water from the lake, I take time to watch Sam’s dogs from a distance. I know they’re wondering who I am and what I’m doing here. I act casual. I want them to get used to me. When I approach, they all come out and pull at the ends of their chains. They snarl, baring their long white pointed teeth, their necks straining. They are still wild animals.

I throw each one a big piece of ﬁsh and they snap it right out of the air, trap it between their paws and devour it in three bites. Then they lift their heads and lick their lips, hoping for more.

I go to the lead dog ﬁrst. She jumps onto her roof, sits down, eyes me carefully. I talk to her softly so that she gets used to the sound of my voice.

“Hello, pretty girl. How are you this morning?”

I hold out my bare hand slowly. She smells me, butts my hand with her cold nose, growls.

“No, no…gently…that’s it…gently. I just want to pat you.”

The others are watching us out of the corners of their eyes. They’re nervous.

The lead dog is as white as gunpowder. I sink my hand into her ruff, feeling its rough texture, the warmth of her muscled body. I rub her back.

“You have a nice coat. Must keep you good and warm, eh?”

Her big tail thumps hard against the roof of her den, then sweeps back and forth.

I don’t look at the other dogs, who are all standing on their roofs now, except for the big black male who’s lying inside his den. He just watches me from a distance.

• • •

It’s getting colder, and at night the ground freezes. One day I start the dogs’ training.

“Always be on your guard,” Sam told me. “These dogs are like wolves. You never know for sure whether they will obey you. The important thing is to love them and make them respect you. Always leave a long safety cord behind your sled in case you fall. And make sure you tie them up well when you harness them. There is nothing more unpredictable than a dog team.”

I unchain the lead dog and tie her to the end of a long leash. The pack rises up angrily. They are howling with rage, pulling at the ends of their chains. I don’t know whether they want to be free, too, or whether they want to tear me apart.

I know the commands. To go straight ahead you do nothing. To turn left you croak like a crow — “Ha! Haaa! Haa!” — at the top of your lungs. To go right you make a sound like a magpie, “Hi! Hi! Hi!” And to stop it’s “Whoa!”

I’m ready.

“Allez, allez! Let’s go!”

And I shake the leash. The head dog starts to trot down the marked trail. I let her pull me far behind, as if a sled and team were between us.

Everything goes well. I know the path like the back of my hand because I cleared it myself. At each curve I call, “Ha! Ha!” or “Hi! Hi!”

“Whoa! Whoa!” The dog obeys instantly. She comes to a stop, her ears pricked, her tongue hanging out, panting. I wait, then I turn back. That’s enough for today.

“Allez! Allez! Time to go home!”

It’s as if I’ve cracked a whip. She speeds along in the harness. She’s not trotting anymore, but running at top speed. Her strides lengthen, her shoulders roll like waves. She swallows up the path with me behind her.

I can’t slow her down. I let her drag me. Her shoulders ﬂatten, her back arches. Her claws bite into the earth.

“Whoa!”

There’s nothing to be done. We are running like the devil. She pulls like something possessed. I wrap the cords around my ﬁsts.

Any moment now we are going to have to go around a big spruce. She passes to the left of it and, with a huge effort, I pull to the right. The cord pulls tight, the dog yowls in pain and stops in her tracks.

“Whoa, girl!”

I walk back to the path and gather up the rope. We start off again at a reasonable speed. We are greeted by an enormous clamor of long howls and yapping.

I chain the dog and go from one den to the other. I rub the dogs’ backs one at a time, pat their haunches. They curl their long tails in the air like a squirrel eating nuts. I talk to each one and give them names.

My lead dog is called La Coureuse, because she’s swift and elegant. The big black one, who still snarls at me, reminds me of Carcajou, the wolverine. Then there’s Gros Museau, the one with a huge head, gray coat and square shoulders. The last two animals are younger. There’s La Sorcière, with her narrow muzzle and almond eyes, lost in her long coat. The last one is Mouffette. He is stocky and has a beautiful black-and-white coat.

I have a full team, but I have to train them. I love running them along the path with La Coureuse, who soon follows my commands. Each day we go farther and farther.

It’s too early to take the sled out, so I get Charlotte’s big metal washtub and ﬁll it with some good-sized rocks. I tie one end of the safety rope to the steps of the porch and attach the gangline to the dogs. I harness the dogs in pairs. First the two biggest and strongest, Carcajou and Gros Museau. Then come La Sorcière and Mouffette, the young ones in the middle on the outside. Far in the front at the end of the line is the leader, La Coureuse.

The dogs are all sitting nicely in perfect order, as if they have been doing this their whole lives. I get the feeling they’re smiling. I settle down in the tub, ready for a quick departure.

I’m ready. I just have to undo the safety line and give the signal to go.

Suddenly Pinamen rushes onto the porch.

“Nipishish! My washtub!”

La Coureuse rears up, and the other dogs throw themselves forward at full speed.

The shock is brutal. The washtub is lifted into the air like a feather, the stairs are literally snatched from under us and we are off down the path at a dizzying speed. The trees rush by on both sides. I lean back and hang on to the sides of the washtub with both hands as it ﬂies and bounces over the mounds of frozen earth.

“Whoa! La Coureuse! Whoa!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

But it’s no use. The team is yapping with joy, and they are having a wonderful time. I can hardly hold on. At any moment I risk tumbling head over heels onto the path.

We’re about to arrive at the stream. Maybe that will stop them. But no, they throw themselves into it as if as if it isn’t even there. The washtub sinks and ﬁlls with water. I barely have time to leap out. I’m in water up to my knees. The dogs are in water up to their necks.

Now I’m mad, but I take a deep breath and calm down. I wade up to La Coureuse, grab her by the collar and put the team back on the path home.

The wet dogs look pitiful. They lay their chins ﬂat on the ground, their ears pressed down, their tails between their legs. They are whining like cats, but I’m not about to laugh it off and they know it. My gestures are brusque, my silence hard. When everything is ready I cry, “Allez, La Coureuse! Let’s go home!”

The word home has a magical effect. Their collars dig into their shoulders, the straps strain and tremble. The dogs lower their heads and pull.

“Allez! Let’s go!”

I pull, too, to lighten the load, and slowly we get going.

We arrive at the cabin exhausted. The washtub stops in front of the porch, which is now missing its steps.

Pinamen is standing there stunned. I arrive limping and soaked.

She takes two steps and looks down.

“Nipishish, look at Charlotte’s washtub!” she moans.

The tub is completely bashed and half ﬂooded with water.

I shrug contritely. I don’t know what to say.

“I was just bringing you water for your washing up,” I say.

We burst out laughing.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no… I’m okay.”

I rub my thighs. Every bone and muscle in my body hurts, but nothing is broken.

I won’t forget this ride. My dogs have taught me a good lesson. I hurry to unhitch them. Pinamen helps me and when our eyes meet, we start laughing again.

• • •

I move forward step by step, very quietly, bent over. My eyes sweep over the ground.

I’m inspecting the path down to the water at the other end of the lake. I take in everything — a clump of trampled grass, a broken branch, an old rope…

Suddenly I stop. I can see the light traces of footprints imprinted in the damp earth. They are boot tracks. I follow them like a hunting dog that has spotted a beaver under the ice. The tracks leave the path and head for the swamp. You can see the trail in the moss. The stems of the blueberry and yew bushes are broken and bent over.

He stopped here. He probably crouched down to see under the spruce branches that border the lake. There are four cigarette butts trampled into the moss. They are from store-bought cigarettes. A white man’s cigarettes.

Four butts in all. He was here awhile.

I crouch down in the same spot and look around. From here I can see out over the lake — the shore, the ﬁsh ﬂoats and, right at the end of the bay, our tiny camp.

I was right. Yesterday in the fog while I was raising my net, I suddenly felt cold on my back. I felt as though someone was watching me. Someone had their eyes on me, and it wasn’t an animal. I kept on working, but from time to time I threw a glance in the direction of the dock. Everything was too quiet. All the birds had ﬂed, and even the squirrels were silent. Only the big gull stood still on its rock by the shore, its round eyes ﬁxed on the water. But I could feel it was ready to ﬂy off at any moment.

Who is here watching the lake?

THE WOODEN FLOOR IS freezing on my feet. It’s cold this morning. Winter has settled in for good.

I’m happy. A pale band of frost makes a pattern like transparent ferns on the window. Through the door you can see the silent valley. The trees stand like stone statues. Light ﬂakes of snow dance on the wind in the frosty air.

The lake has turned white during the night. Trails of powder run down its back, mingle with the alders on the shore and swirl up to the tousled heads of the spruce trees.

My dogs smell the coming storm and take shelter in their dens, which will soon be covered with snow. Only big Carcajou for some reason is sitting on his roof, his chest high, his front legs stiff. The wind plasters his long black coat against his body. His eyes are ﬁxed on the lake, staring at the invisible mountain.

Suddenly I am ﬁlled with a deep feeling of friendship and respect for this animal. What is going on inside his head, in his heart? He looks so alone, so big in the storm.

I quickly put on my trousers, my mukluks, my anorak and toque and go out. The air is brisk and biting, so cold it burns my throat. The frozen planks of the porch echo like a tight drum beneath my feet.

I jump down into the snow, sinking up to my knees. I struggle down the path to the dog dens.

Carcajou and I are face to face. The dog doesn’t budge. Our warm breath mingles in the cold. Beneath his shaggy, frost-covered eyelids, his eyes shine like two tiny beads. Icicles are hanging from his muzzle and lips.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders. With my right hand, I lean his head against mine and press him to me. I pat his back. I can feel him shiver. The two of us disappear in a whirl of snow. I close my eyes for an instant. The ﬂakes melt on my warm cheeks.

“Come on, my good Carcajou. You’ll feel better inside.”

I kick aside the snowbank that is blocking the entrance to his den. Carcajou jumps down from his perch and goes inside. He turns several times, paws the ground and lies down, rolling himself into a ball, his nose buried up to his eyes in the long, stiff fur of his bushy tail.

I hurry back to the cabin, thoughtful.

Is Carcajou remembering the days when his ancestors ran freely in the forest?

Inside, I stir up the hot embers in the ﬁre and ﬁll the stove with wood. Pinamen makes tea. We are in the heart of the world.

It is so cold that nothing moves in the forest. It is as if the earth has suddenly stopped breathing. The animals have all sought shelter, burying themselves in the thick wood or under the snow. They are smart. They are waiting for better weather. Pinamen and I will do the same.

It would be dangerous to go outside in this. I like winter, but I’m afraid of it, too. It can be both generous and cruel and it does not forgive the foolhardy. We stay inside our warm house. We have lots of food and wood.

The time has come for me to read my ﬁles.

The big black stove is packed with wood, and the smokestack is roaring like a waterfall. Buffeted by the wind, our cabin trembles right down to its foundation.

I start to stack big logs of green birch and dry spruce along the wall. I’m emptying the wood box.

Pinamen suddenly understands what I’m doing. She wipes the gleaming oilcloth and sets out tea and bannock. I ﬁnd my bag, shake it free of bark and wood chips and put it in the middle of the table. I take out the two bundles of papers and place them neatly in front of me.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. My heart is beating heavily. My movements are careful and steady.

What do these cold, still papers hide? I am afraid they will hurt me. Maybe I took a big risk for nothing by going into the band ofﬁce that night. As far as the whites are concerned, I’m a criminal now, a thief. But in my heart and soul, I know that I did what I had to do.

Pinamen is sitting at the end of the table. She is getting ready to pluck two partridges. Her face is calm, her eyes dark and tender.

Minister of Indian and Northern Affairs

Identiﬁcation Form (Conﬁdential)

Name: Pierre Larivière

Indian name: Nipishish

Place of birth: Maniwaki, Gatineau County

Baptized: No

Status: Métis

Father’s name: Shipu

Mother’s name: Flore St. Amour

Father’s band number: 175

Mother’s band number: None

Pierre Larivière (Indian name Nipishish) is the illegitimate son of Shipu, Algonquin Indian from Lac Victoria, band number 175. Pierre Larivière was born in Maniwaki on August 17, 1944. His father took him to the Lac Cabonga Reserve shortly after his birth, without baptizing him. (Hence the absence of a birth certiﬁcate in his ﬁle.) His mother, a white woman, is dead. The child was adopted and raised (as is the custom) by Joseph and Manie Twenish, the family of Shipu’s older brother. The child’s biological father (Shipu) died accidentally in 1950, drowned in Rivière des Rapides when his canoe capsized while he was raising his ﬁsh nets.

Pierre Larivière attended St. Mark Indian Residential School near the town of Amos, in Abitibi. In his report, the director describes him as an intelligent boy, but stubborn and sly. He calls Larivière obstinate and unmanageable, and “though outwardly obedient, he is in fact still uncivilized, with an unseemly sense of entitlement.” He concludes that this Indian should be watched closely, because he “carries within him the seeds of a rebel” who “will never be a good and loyal Canadian.”

Pierre Larivière was placed with a foster family in Mont-Laurier (Mona and Méo Paradis). He attended St-Eugène secondary school without great success. He always stood at the bottom of his class.

It should be noted that a report from the municipal police in Mont-Laurier decribes him as violent. One night he showed up drunk to claim his pay at the bowling alley where the Paradis had arranged for him to be taken on. When the manager refused to pay him, Larivière went on a rampage, throwing full bottles of beer at the mirrors, windows and bowling lanes, thereby endangering the lives of the patrons.

Larivière was arrested on the spot and imprisoned. His case is still open, because the accused returned to the reserve before appearing in court. He can be arrested on the slightest infraction and convicted without further ado.

According to the RCMP, Larivière is a problem Indian. Sergeant Macdonald, who is in charge of the natives on the reserve, considers him a troublemaker who must be kept under watch, because he stirs up tensions between the whites and Indians. His presence on the reserve is undesirable. He is, according to Macdonald, just like his father.

I am stunned. I would never consider myself a violent person. All I want is to live in peace. I don’t call for revolt, just respect for one another. In Mont-Laurier, I just wanted to be paid for the work I had done.

But what really sticks in my mind is the last sentence, “just like his father.” What does that mean? What do my father and I have in common?

I turn over the pages one by one. I read everything. Mostly they are ofﬁcial letters:

- From the residential school, complaining that they were not paid because I am Métis.

- From Mona Paradis, claiming extra for my keep, saying that I have eaten up all her proﬁt.

- My report cards, with the marks underlined in red.

- A police report from Mont-Laurier.

- A letter from the Ministry of Indian Affairs in Ottawa, addressed to the residential school, regarding a request for a report on my health and academic results.

Reading through all this reopens the wounds that I thought had closed. I go back in time. I see a long parade of closed, dark faces before me. My unhappy classmates. Mona and Méo at the dinner table arguing about the money for my keep. The thin, ghostly face of my only friend, Millette.

I clench my teeth when I think about the cruelties at the residential school — a world that was empty, with no soul or love or respect. It all makes me sad, but what matters is that I came out of it a stronger human being. Life stretches before me now, not behind me.

The other pile of papers is the ﬁle on my father. I’ve kept it for the end. I am afraid of what I will ﬁnd there.

There is no identiﬁcation form like mine. Just a report from the Ministry of Indian Affairs.

Conﬁdential Classiﬁed Document

Shipu, an Algonquin from Lac Victoria in La Vérendrye Park, was born in this isolated and wild region around 1920. We have no documents relating to his birth. We know little about his childhood, only that he lived in the woods with his family (possibly adopted, as was customary at the time when the Algonquin were nomadic).

At about age seventeen we ﬁnd him in the rural area of Kazabazua, not far from Ottawa. He was taken in by the family of a wife of a Hudson’s Bay Company agent. In this village he took up studies and learned to speak English and French. At Kazabazua he also fell in love with a young white woman with whom he had a child (see ﬁle on Pierre Larivière).

The Indians of Lac Victoria rarely live outside their milieu, but Shipu seemed to be a brave and adventurous man. We know he spent time in a variety of different urban settings. He visited Caughnawaga several times — a Mohawk reserve near Montreal — Maniwaki, an Algonquin reserve in the Gatineau Valley, Village Huron near Quebec and especially Ottawa, the nation’s capital. There he was very active, as we will see. In Village Huron in the early forties he became friends with well-known activist Jules Sioui, who inﬂuenced him enormously. Sioui had only to throw a little oil on the ﬁre to ignite Shipu; he already had the reputation for being vindictive. The two men became a team, sharing the same resentment against established authority. Shipu never hesitated to speak out to accuse the government, the church (especially the fathers of Marie-Immaculée), and the forestry companies of being the major cause of the poverty and miseries of Canadian Indians.

Shipu, Sioui and other Indians of the same ilk spoke freely of self-government, of regaining their so-called “stolen” territories that had been violated by the whites since their arrival in America. Their choice of language is most revealing of their frame of mind and their warlike intentions. We suspect Shipu of creating a cell of dangerous professional agitators on the Maniwaki reserve. He was an active and inﬂuential member of an important network of Canadian and American Indians who worked tirelessly to create a “North American Indian Government,” stirring up the sympathies of Indians on both sides of the border.

Shipu regularly wrote protest letters to the prime minister asking for a meeting at the highest level with the Indian chiefs, which was always refused (see copies attached). He threatened to write to journalists or even to the pope or the Queen of England to complain about the bad behavior of the governments and church toward the Indians. In his writings, he denounced clearcutting by the forestry companies that “destroy the forests and animals,” the private ﬁshing and hunting clubs installed “exclusively on the ancestral territories,” the construction of dams that ﬂood huge territories, the compulsory instruction of young Indians “herded by force into residential schools far from the forest and their families.”

The missionary Beauchêne was the ﬁrst to bring an ofﬁcial complaint against Shipu (see copy attached). He accused him of physical and verbal violence, of uttering death threats toward him. Claiming that the missionary had sexually abused the young men of the reserve, Shipu grabbed his throat like a wild animal and threatened to send him straight to hell for all eternity. The missionary demanded that he be imprisoned.

Shipu is an imposing ﬁgure in presence and stature. Despite his youth, he has great inﬂuence on his followers. He is a charismatic man. They say he comes from a long line of shamans and that he secretly practices devil-worshipping rituals, in the course of which he sings and plays the drum. He knows how to convince even the sceptical to follow him. He is always the one elected by the elders to represent the Algonquin in their dealings with the Ministry of Indian Affairs.

Shipu has more than once taken the RCMP to task, accusing them of doing the government’s dirty work by intimidating and mistreating the Indians. The RCMP, in cooperation with American authorities, keep a constant eye on Shipu. They consider him to be a troublemaker, dangerous to the peace of both countries and to the harmonious development of the forestry industry.

Shipu died accidentally on June 29, 1950, when his canoe capsized in the rough waters of Rivière des Rapides (see ofﬁcial report of the RCMP).

And that’s how my father’s ﬁle ends. I turn the pages one by one. I reread a short letter from Jules Sioui, addressed to the minister of Indian Affairs.

To the Honorable Minister of Indian Affairs

Parliament Buildings, Ottawa, Canada

December 29, 1950

Dear Minister,

We have learned with shock of the death of Shipu, an Algonquin Indian from Lac Victoria in La Verendrye Park. In our opinion this death is suspicious and we ask you, in the name of all Indians, to order an immediate inquiry that will determine the precise cause.

For our part, we have every reason to doubt that a canoeist so experienced, who had lived in the forest his entire life, recognized to be a man of the river (as his name suggests), could drown so stupidly.

Shipu was a man of great integrity, respected by all and considered a wise man. We profoundly regret his death.

Respectfully,
Jules Sioui
Executive Chief, C.P.
Village Huron
Loretteville, P.Q.

This is followed by the reply from the Minister’s principal secretary:

The Minister has taken note of your letter and has instructed me to forward it to the RCMP, who will follow it up in the appropriate manner.

Hugh Richardson

Deputy Minister

Ministry of Indian and Northern Affairs

CONFIDENTIAL

Report on the inquiry of the RCMP into the death by drowning of the Algonquin Indian Shipu.

July 15, 1951

At about 6 a.m. on June 29, the Indian Shipu left the Lac Cabonga reserve located in La Vérendrye Park between Mont-Laurier and Val d’Or to lift his ﬁshing nets that he always put in the same place, at the mouth of a little bay located 500 feet upstream from the falls of the Rivière des Rapides. At this time of the year, the above-named river is swollen with the spring melt; it is well known to be dangerous to navigate.

Shipu’s canoe was carried by the force of the current and was swallowed up by the falls, causing the death of the careless ﬁsherman. The remains of the canoe that we analyzed clearly show that the bark was torn on contact with the numerous jutting rocks at the head of the falls.

An eyewitness, present that morning when Shipu left to go ﬁshing, conﬁrmed to us the poor condition of his boat and the ﬁsherman’s intention to change the location of his ﬁsh nets that day because of the seasonal high waters.

Owing to

1) major ﬂooding of the waters due to the abundant autumn rains, which made navigation extremely dangerous on Rivière des Rapides;

2) the dilapidated state of the canoe that Shipu navigated plus the natural fragility of the birchbark construction;

3) the fact that the placing of a ﬁsh net at this spot in the upper waters of the falls was known to be very dangerous;

4) the unequivocal deposition of an eyewitness corroborating points 1, 2 and 3 of our inquiry and conﬁrming that Shipu himself realized the recklessness of his endeavor and the risks he was running.

Taking into account all these facts, we conclude that Shipu died of accidental death by drowning.

Investigating corporal
John Macdonald

Witness
I certify that this information is correct:
Rita Whiteduck

John Macdonald.

Is this the same John Macdonald who rules the reserve? The man who follows my every move? The man who says I am just like my father?

And Rita Whiteduck? Who is she? Her name rolls around in my head. Rita Whiteduck. Where have I seen this name before?

I grab my ﬁle and quickly ﬂip through the pages. I remember — that mild little letter addressed to St. Mark Residential School, asking for news of me. It’s signed…Rita Whiteduck! The signature is ﬁne, wobbly, difﬁcult to read, but it’s her. I have no doubt.

Why was she interested in me? I don’t know anyone by this name. Why is her name associated with the agent of the RCMP?

John Macdonald, this man who’s like a poison in my life, has something to do with the death of my father. And this death, according to Jules Sioui, was perhaps not accidental…

I’m starting to understand now why the RCMP was so concerned about the theft of the ﬁles and why they want to recover them at any cost. Sergeant Macdonald must know that if I read them, I would one day know enough to put it all together.

But what can I do alone against the powerful RCMP and the minister of Indian Affairs?

The day comes to a close. I have lost all sense of time, buried in my reading and my questions. Pinamen has been quietly preparing the meal. She puts two plates on the table. My mouth waters. The smell of cooking partridge brings me back to reality.

Pinamen lights the lamp, sits down in front of me and smiles. I always feel as if I’m seeing her for the ﬁrst time, as if I’m discovering her the way one discovers a new landscape on the shore of a great lake. I look at her soft oval face, her golden cheeks, her black eyes shining with love.

And I am suddenly afraid that I have brought her into something that will turn dirty and dangerous.

• • •

I load up the stove for the night. Pinamen blows out the lamp and everything goes dark. Our hands search for each other in the blackness and we walk to bed.

Under the blankets, her head resting on my shoulder, Pinamen listens carefully as I tell her what I’ve read. My voice is low and steady, like a brook meandering through the undergrowth.

Pinamen is quiet for a long time.

“Who’s Rita Whiteduck?” she asks ﬁnally.

“I don’t know. Maybe Manie knows who she is. She was there when they brought back my father’s body. But why hasn’t she ever said anything?”

“She’s coming at Christmas with the others. We can ask then. But we must ﬁnd this woman, Nipishish. She’s the key to the whole thing.”

“I don’t even know if she’s still alive. If she is, where is she? The world is a big place.”

“Her letter came from Ottawa…”

“I have an idea. I’ll write to my old teacher at Mont-Laurier, Monsieur Thibeault. I’ll ask him to help me ﬁnd her. He’s traveled a lot. He’ll know what to do.”

“But what about Sergeant Macdonald? He scares me.”

“He’s going to do everything he can to get the ﬁles back. I have to keep them in a safe place. They’re our only weapon, and he knows it.”

I shiver. The pile of papers is sitting on the table. What if he suddenly blows in like a gust of wind? I ought to get up and put them back in the bottom of the wood box.

But the cabin is shaking, in the grasp of an incredible whirlwind. And the raging storm reassures me.

By the next morning I have already written in my head the letter I want to send to Monsieur Thibeault. All I have to do is put it on paper.

Dear Sir:

I hope you are well and that the students are not giving you too hard a time. I have good memories of my stay in your class and I thank you for all that you have done for me. I read and reread the book you gave me on Louis Riel. Thanks to you, I have come to know about one of my ancestors who played such an important part in Canadian history.

I am writing to ask you a big favor. I am looking for a woman named Rita Whiteduck. She must be about 45 years old. All I can tell you is that she lived in the Ottawa area in the ﬁfties. Is it possible for you to try to ﬁnd out where she is?

I know that what I am asking is not easy. I am living on a trap line with my companion, Pinamen. I can’t do anything from here, but ﬁnding this Rita Whiteduck could be extremely important to my life.

I thank you in advance for anything you can do for me.

You can write me c/o Sam Brascoupé, Lac Rapide Indian Reserve, La Vérendrye Park, via Val d’Or.

Sam will be coming here sometime in the coming days, and I will give him this letter to send to you.

Nipishish (Pierre Larivière)

IT HAS BEEN A long and difﬁcult day. It has been hard to check the traps. Some days it’s better to stay in. I hurry to reset a trap that some clever marten has managed to spring.

La Coureuse is tramping the ground and looking at me pleadingly. She wants to get back on the path.

The dogs are nervous. Sitting on their rear ends, their muzzles in the air, their mouths open, they call out impatiently.

The wind has been vicious all morning. Snow crystals cover my face and collect in the fur of my hood. The bristling heads of the trees are blurred against the gray sky.

Suddenly a gust of snow blasts me in the face, cutting off my breath. I’m suffocating.

I’ve taken too long. A heavy storm has set in. If I don’t get home quickly we’ll all be trapped. I’ll have to dig a shelter in the snow with the dogs and wait for it to pass, but for how long? A day for sure, maybe two or even three. That won’t be good. I don’t want to leave Pinamen alone, even if I know she’s safe.

I have to get home. The storm is coming from the northwest and I am going in the opposite direction. I can still move quickly and get away from it. My team is full of spirit, my dogs are in good shape and I know they don’t want to stay here any more than I do.

I run back to the sled that I have tied to a tree. The dogs jump up and howl with joy, their backs arched, their hind legs rigid and trembling. La Coureuse leaps up, pulling at the traces. She doesn’t wait for my signal before she throws herself into her collar with all her might, and we lurch ahead in a burst of loud baying and snarls of effort.

“Hush! Hush! Allez, my friends, allez!”

The team, whipped into a frenzy by my calls, swallows up the path. I stand on the runners and balance the sled with the weight of my body.

The dogs run, their long tails waving like fans, their fur bristling, tongues hanging.

“Hush! Hush! Home!”

They understand this command well. They double their effort. Their legs stiffen, their claws grip the packed snow of the path. They don’t howl. They whimper, little yaps that are swallowed up by the long moans of the wind.

The snow is sticking to my thighs. The howling wind is in front, behind. The powder blocks my view and covers the path, pricking my eyes.

The huge branches of the spruce and ﬁrs wave desperately in the air. We have to hurry. I am running behind the sled now. I push with all my strength on the uphill stretches and always, to encourage my animals and myself at the same time, I shout, “Allez! That’s good! Go, La Coureuse. Don’t stop, Carcajou! Good girl! Hush! Hush! La Sorcière! Pull, that’s good, good!”

The more I shout, the stronger I feel. I work as hard as they do. We’re a team, a team of six, and we are forging ahead with a single heartbeat.

The storm gains ground. The squalls are no longer nipping at our heels. Instead they are lashing at our faces.

In the clearings, the path is covered with sheets of packed snow. For long stretches the trail disappears in the whiteness. The dogs now have snow up to their chests, and the sled is laboring over the path like a plow through damp earth.

The sweat runs down my back. We’ve slowed down. We’re struggling.

A crazy thought comes to me. In a few minutes we’ll arrive at the edge of the lake. That’s where my trap line branches to the right to follow the shoreline.

I decide I have to risk it. I wait, then when I arrive at the end of the path I shout at the top of my lungs, “Ha! Ha! La Coureuse! Allez, allez! Ha! Ha!”

And I lean my full weight on the sled, running behind.

La Coureuse understands. She runs like a deer being pursued by coyotes, plunging off the track onto the frozen surface of the lake, her head down, the whole team following behind.

The dogs stall, crying in protest. I keep pushing desperately. We have to make our way through twenty feet of soft deep snow. We advance inch by inch. If we stop, we’ll never get moving again. The team would fall apart and I would have to free the dogs one by one. Alone, they would get lost or die of cold.

By now I am buried in snow up to my waist. I keep shouting, trying to lift up the sled.

“Hush! Hush! Forward! That’s good! Good! Allez, La Coureuse, allez, for God’s sake!”

In the gale I cry out all their names at the top of my lungs. I cry until I feel sick, until my throat burns.

The dogs know that freedom is out on the ice. They leap ahead like hares, wailing, with powerful lunges that shake the sled. I push up like a lever to lift the load and scream into the wind.

Suddenly, La Coureuse utters a guttural moan that cuts through the storm. She ﬁnally has four feet ﬁrmly on the crusty snow on the edge of the lake.

The sled rights itself. The other dogs join her, yapping with joy.

I stop. The wind is violent, the cold brittle. I can see nothing. I cling to the sled and blindly grope my way forward, holding on to the gangline. I stop at each animal, brushing off the snow, running my big mitten under their chests. I hug them to me and talk in their ears, giving a good word to each one.

“Go on, girl,” I say to La Coureuse. “I’m counting on you. Take us home. Pinamen is waiting.”

And I rub her coat and hold her in my arms until we have a chance to catch our breath.

She’s the only one who can use her instinct to take us home. I’m like a blind man, and I have to trust her.

We are out in the open now, at the mercy of the big winds, hampered by the blinding, ceaseless blizzard. The cabin is two or three miles straight ahead.

I tie the safety cord ﬁrmly around my waist.

“Hush! Hush!”

The sled glides over the the hard snow, tossed and squeezed by the wind. I stand on the runners. The team is trotting. It’s a good sign. I know that my dogs are exhausted by the snow and battered by the merciless cold. They could injure their paws on the sharp shards of ice. I let them set their own pace. We move ahead silently, and it’s like moving through a moonless night. I imagine La Coureuse up ahead pulling at the end of the harness, her eyes squinting, her ears ﬂattened, her nose glued to the ice.

I jog along for a moment to ease their load and to warm myself up. I have to bend my head to protect my eyes. The snow seeps into the cuffs of my mittens and over the tops of my mukluks. I can feel the cold biting into my wrists and ankles. But there’s no time to stop, no time to think. I have to move forward at all costs, follow the sled, have faith. Run, run without stopping, run so I don’t freeze, so I don’t fall.

The wind sneaks into the opening at the corners of my cap. It burns my neck like hot iron, creeping along my cheek, which is swollen hard as a rock. My eyes are streaming with tears, my ears are burning.

Run, keep running. Don’t stop.

From time to time I cover my face with my big mitten. I try to breathe into the fur collar of my anorak to melt my eyebrows and my cheeks, but it doesn’t last.

I lose all concept of time. I don’t know where we are anymore. I just run, my hands glued to the sled. My head is completely empty. My feet are heavy and numb.

I run, run through the storm. My heart is beating like a drum in my chest. The sled is my life buoy. If I let go, if I fall, I’ll die for sure. The dogs will drag me to my death.

I can no longer feel the corners of my lips, my wrists, my ankles. I am at the end of my strength, but I know I must keep going.

Suddenly, the sled stops.

What’s happening? Has La Coureuse got lost? Does she no longer know which way to go? I grope my way to the front of the sled. The harness is slack. Carcajou starts howling and the others join in.

They’re howling for joy. We’re here! We’re at home, on solid land, but I still can’t see anything. All I can hear is the wind, wailing and whistling around us.

Pinamen has heard the barking and has run out to help us. My ﬁngers are too stiff to unharness the dogs; Pinamen takes care of it. I take them in my arms, hug them as well as I can. Then I let them go into their dens. La Coureuse is the last one to be freed. I bury my head in her neck.

“Thank you, girl. Go on now. Go and rest. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.”

Pinamen takes me under the arm and holds me up so I can climb the steps of the porch. We disappear into the house and use all our strength to close the door on the raging storm.

It is warm in the house. The lamp throws a soft yellow light on the tablecloth.

Sitting beside the roaring stove, I stretch out, close my eyes, let myself unfreeze. I breathe deeply. If I could, I would cry with joy and pain at the same time. My whole body is shaking, but I think only of the pleasure of being safe, with Pinamen at my side. My muscles relax and the blood starts to run through my veins again. My toes, ﬁngers, nose, ears, pores of my skin are burning, as if I’ve been rolling in an ant hill. I rub myself vigorously. My thighs are hard and frozen. I gradually give in to a deep sense of well-being that seeps over my whole body.

Pinamen, her eyes clear, her face serene and radiant, watches me eat. I dip a big chunk of bannock in the thick gravy of the hare stew, take a juicy bite and let it sit in my mouth, ﬁll my cheeks with its smooth texture. I feel the smell of the forest, the heat of the liquid and crumbs that slide down my throat.

It tastes so good I could cry.

“Nipi, I was so worried.”

Those are the ﬁrst words Pinamen says. I dip my bread in the stew again until it is heavy with the brown gravy.

“I was afraid,” I say. “Afraid to die frozen on the lake, afraid of never seeing you again, afraid of leaving you alone.”

Pinamen holds my hand in hers.

We are in this timeless shelter, while outside a white hell is raging. The big iron stove is packed with wood that crackles on a thick bed of embers. It howls like a cat in heat, keeping out the cold. Tonight, it’s our best friend.

The water heats in a big tub on the stove. Pinamen spreads a towel on the ﬂoor like a carpet. She undresses slowly, raises her arms, loosens her long braids. Her hair falls over her naked shoulders. She bends over, wets her hair, wrings it out, does it again, then dries it and puts it up in a bun. Her movements are careful, like she’s performing a solemn ritual. Her supple bronze body gleams in the shadowy light.

I am ﬁlled with desire and admiration.

“Come!”

She holds her hand out to me and I join her down on the towel. The stove is giving off a good heat that wraps us up. We bathe each other’s bodies with the warm water. The water opens up the pores of my skin.

Pinamen rests her hands on my shoulders. She is smiling mysteriously.

“I have a secret to tell you.” Her voice is serious.

“A secret?”

“Yes. A very big secret. I can tell you tonight, because now I’m sure.”

She turns sideways, takes my hand and places it ﬂat against her belly. It is small, round, hard and soft at the same time. My throat tightens.

“It’s a brand-new secret that I am keeping safe in my belly for you.”

My whole body is trembling and ﬂushed with heat.

“A baby?”

“Yes. Our baby.”

We take each other in our arms. I clasp Pinamen to me, wrapping my arms around her shoulders.

I have always wanted to have children. Three, four, ﬁve… lots. I want to be a father, to share this with Pinamen. It has been a wonderful dream, but now it’s real. I am speechless with joy. I’m going to be a father!

I bury my face in her hair. We stand like that near the stove. I am proud of this woman who has chosen to live with me and whom I love…but I am worried, too.

“We will have all the time we need to get ready,” she says. “I’m only two months pregnant.”

“Let’s go to bed.”

I load the stove with big green logs for the night. Pinamen blows out the lamp. A few rays from the ﬁre ﬁlter through the door of the stove and run across the wooden ﬂoor, lighting our steps to bed. We bury ourselves under a mountain of woolen blankets, burrowing a nest for ourselves. We murmur to each other as we’ve got in the habit of doing since we came to live in the forest. We whisper about our child and our love for each other.

“I love storms,” Pinamen murmurs happily.

“So do I, and I hope this one lasts for days!”

SAM AND OLD Mathieu each strike a match on the stove and light their big fat pipes stuffed with black tobacco. They blow long blue puffs of smoke into the air, their eyes watering.

We are sitting on logs that I have placed around the stove and wood box. Sam and Mathieu are carefully listening to my hunting adventures. They look serious, their eyes round.

“It was a ﬁne day as far as the eye could see. Sunny, not much wind, a dry cold. I had been waiting for the right moment to go after a moose.

“I harnessed up quickly and went in the direction of the mountain. I tied the dogs two miles from the feeding grounds, in a little hollow, to hide their scent. Pinamen stayed with them so they wouldn’t bark.

“I went the rest of the way by snowshoe, Tom’s riﬂe over my shoulder. I moved ahead slowly, patting down the snow with each step. If I made a kill, Pinamen would join me with the sled by following my tracks.

“I walked for a good hour before arriving at a clearing where the moose had beaten down big paths in the snow. There were wolf tracks all around and droppings everywhere.”

Pinamen, Manie, Charlotte and the children are setting the big table. Our house has never been so full. We are getting ready for Christmas eve.

I have lit the lantern and hung it from a center beam, so yellow light ﬂoods the room. A big moose roast is simmering in a pot on the stove. Its gamey scent tickles our nostrils, makes our stomachs rumble and our mouths water.

We are all together for the holiday, in the heart of the forest. It’s nice in the house when it is freezing cold outside and we have good things to eat. It’s all we need to be happy. Tom always used to say that in the forest you could have a million dollars in your pocket and you wouldn’t know what to do with it.

This afternoon, as soon as Manie saw Pinamen, she cried, “And you, my girl, are preparing a surprise for us!”

“Yes, Manie, for the beginning of summer!”

“Well done! I’m happy for you both. I’ll look after you.”

Charlotte takes her niece in her arms. “Let’s celebrate!”

Ever since, the three women haven’t been apart for a second. I follow Pinamen out of the corner of my eye. She hasn’t been the same since she has been carrying our baby. Her movements are those of a mature woman, sure of herself. Her face is beaming and a new light shines in her eyes.

I’ve changed, too. I now have a new responsibility.

My old hunters are waiting. I carry on with my story.

“I was downwind of a light breeze. I hid behind a knoll between the yellow birch and ﬁrs. From my hiding place I could see all around without being seen or scented. I knew if he smelled me or heard me, he’d be gone in a ﬂash.

“I crouched down and loaded my riﬂe, peering through the branches. I waited and listened. I didn’t move. A squirrel ran close by. It was a good sign. The forest had forgotten I was there.

“Then I saw two gray shapes between the branches. Two moose were grazing on the bark of the trees. I could see them between the trunks. They were still too far away to shoot.

“I waited for them to come to me. They carried on browsing, stopping often, raising their muzzles, smelling the air. I carefully shouldered the riﬂe and got one in my sight. It was a male, enormous. He raised his head to reach a branch, stretched out his neck right in my line of ﬁre. Our gazes almost met. I ﬁred.

“He reared up, then crashed to the ground. The other one had already disappeared. I put my snowshoes back on and walked over to the animal stretched out on the snow.

“A dark pool of blood was already congealing on the cold snow. I kneeled beside him and put a bare hand on his shoulder. His body was warm, his long, rough coat damp. The powerful energy of the animal ﬂowed into me. I could feel his spirit sink into my body and soul, wrap me up. I thanked the moose for his generosity. I told him I was sorry, but that his death gave me joy.

“Pinamen heard the riﬂe shot and came to join me with the team. We made a ﬁre near the moose. We were very happy. We gave its spirit time to ﬂy away and we thanked it again. We spent the afternoon skinning it, gutting it, cutting it up and loading the meat onto the sled. Several hundred pounds, to share with you!”

Mathieu is very old, maybe even a hundred. Over time he has become shriveled and small, bent like a spruce swept by the wind.

He listens carefully to my story, his pipe clamped between his lips. He has forgotten to smoke. His half-closed eyes are smiling at me, and he drinks in my words as if he is remembering his own life as a hunter.

Pinamen lifts the heavy lid of the pot and bastes the meat. A cloud of rich steam ﬁlls the room. Mush shudders and barks.

Sam empties the ashes out of his pipe into the stove. That’s the signal.

Old Mathieu says a grace to Tom’s memory. Pinamen and I are deeply moved. We owe it to Tom, being here together.

“Tonight we Anishnabe are moose, because we are eating its ﬂesh. It gives us life, and its blood mixes with our own. Be grateful to the forest, the mountain, the lakes, the earth, the stars and to all the animals in the universe who share their riches with us. Tonight we are all one. Let us live in respect for each other. Kitchi miguetsh, thank you.”

And we joyously move to the table.

Later, when the children are asleep and Mush is dozing in his corner, Charlotte takes Pinamen’s hands in hers.

“So, things have gone well for you two here in the bush?” she asks.

“Oh, yes! Everything is good.”

Sam is still, holding his pipe.

“What’s the matter?” Charlotte asks, seeing our hesitation.

Pinamen looks at me, her eyes frightened.

“We sometimes feel as though someone is watching us from far away… or sometimes the dogs will suddenly start to howl as if someone is around. And now we have had a visit from the police.”

“The police?” Sam is sitting on the edge of his log.

“Yes. Sergeant Macdonald.”

“Why has he come here, to my territory?”

“Nipishish was away. He asked a lot of questions about him…”

“What I’m doing here, if I have a hunting permit, if I am planning to go back to the reserve to live…”

“He insisted on coming in, but I refused. I closed the door on his face.”

“You did the right thing! This is my territory, not the government’s. I don’t have to be given permission to live on my land, and you don’t either, my children. No!”

I am leaning against the wood box. I take out the big logs and bring out the ﬁles that I place in the middle of the table.

Everyone is wide-eyed and serious.

“I’m the one who broke into the band ofﬁce last fall,” I say. “Look, I stole my ﬁle, and the ﬁle belonging to my father. I had asked to see them and the manager refused. So one night I snuck in and took them.”

The silence is like a stone in the cabin. The women are quiet and pale as nuns, their hands resting on the table in front of them. The men have stopped smoking. Mathieu squints as if to better understand what is happening. He looks like a ferret, a little smile at the corners of his mouth. I am standing up, the lantern at my back. My body throws a narrow shadow on the tablecloth.

“These ﬁles tell the story of my life and my father’s. They belong to me.”

“Nipishish wants to know his history, who he is, where he comes from. These ﬁles are his. He only took what was his,” Pinamen adds.

“The police have ﬁles on every single Indian. They follow our trails, write down everything we do. They watch us from far away, track us like animals.”

Everyone is completely surprised. I stop for an instant to catch my breath.

“I want to know more about the death of my father. I have read everything, especially the report of the inquiry into his drowning. It’s a disturbing document.”

I breathe deeply, weighing my words carefully.

“I’m convinced that Shipu was murdered and that the RCMP had something to do with it. But to ﬁnd out, I need your help.”

Manie is pale. “Whatever you want, Nipishish.”

The others nod.

“You did the right thing, Nipishish!” Mathieu says. “You are a strong man. It’s about time someone stood up to them!”

“When Shipu left on the morning of the accident, was he alone in the canoe?”

My question surprises them. Manie speaks ﬁrst, her brow knit.

“It’s the ﬁrst time I’ve asked myself that question. Your father was a loner. He liked to go about his business by himself. Sometimes he would take you with him. He would sit you in the middle of the canoe. But that morning you stayed home, thank goodness!”

“Could someone else have been with him?”

“Perhaps. But if so I don’t see who it could have been. The police only brought back his body. They rolled it in a canvas and left it in front of the house, saying he had drowned. We never thought to ask questions about the accident…”

“And the canoe?”

“Oh, it was a beautiful canoe,” exclaimed Mathieu. “Joseph and I made it for him. He handled it like a master, gliding over the water like a loon. That was the last birchbark canoe I ever made.”

“After the accident my husband Joseph went several miles down that river. He found a piece of bark with holes in it, shreds of the wooden frame. He was surprised not to ﬁnd anything else. It was as if the canoe had mysteriously ﬂown away.”

I leaf quickly through Shipu’s ﬁle and stop at the report of the inquiry. I hold it next to the light.

“Macdonald writes here that he had a witness, a woman named Rita Whiteduck. She said Shipu was ﬁshing in an old broken-down birchbark canoe.”

Mathieu is furious. “It’s not true! She’s lying! Macdonald is lying, too!”

“But who is Rita Whiteduck?”

No one knows.

“You know, Nipishish, your father sometimes had visits from people we didn’t know. Indians from Ottawa, from Caughnawaga, Village Huron, even from the United States. They never stayed for long. They were friends he’d made when he lived in Kazabazua. Rita Whiteduck…I don’t know who that is…”

“The last time Sam was here, Nipishish gave him a letter to mail to his old teacher in Mont-Laurier and we’re waiting —”

“A letter!” Sam suddenly smacks his forehead with his ﬁst. “Nipishish, I forgot! You know Louisa, the young woman who works at the band ofﬁce? She gave me an envelope for you.”

He hurriedly rummages in the pocket of his anorak hanging on a nail near the door.

It’s from Monsieur Thibeault. I open it quickly. All eyes are turned to me. Old Mathieu is a bit deaf. He turns his head and stretches his neck forward. I lean back to take advantage of the lamp shining over my shoulder. My throat is dry. My voice sounds like the priest at the church.

Dear Nipishish,

I was very happy to receive news of you. You say that you are living on the trapline. Good for you! I am really happy for you. This life will allow you to rediscover your roots.

As for Rita Whiteduck, I will spare you the details of all the steps I took to ﬁnd this name in Ottawa, but she is not listed in the city telephone directory. The Minister of Indian Affairs refuses to give out any information about Indians. The police are no more forthcoming. So I called one of my old students who is head of medicine at the Ottawa General Hospital. He checked the hospital archives and found a ﬁle under the name of R. Whiteduck living at 16 Stewart Street in Ottawa.

Might this be the person you are looking for? Do you want me to carry on with this inquiry? There it is, my dear Nipishish. I hope this information will be useful to you.

If you pass through Mont-Laurier, do not hesitate to come to see me. Or maybe I will come and visit you in the forest one day. You know that I am also a nature lover.

Merry Christmas to you, to Pinamen, and your whole family. I hope our paths will cross again one of these days.

G.Thibeault

The light suddenly gets weaker and then we are plunged into darkness. Charlotte just has enough time to light a candle. The ﬂame ﬂickers and then lengthens out. We have become silhouettes.

Sam stokes the stove with a big poker. He ﬁlls it with wood. It has been a long day. The men’s pipes are cold. It’s time to go to bed.

Charlotte blows out the candle. The night is dark. Pinamen and I are lying next to each other, our eyes wide open.

“Nipishish…”

Manie’s voice is as soft as an owl’s ﬂight.

“Yes…”

“You have to ﬁnd this Rita Whiteduck.”

Charlotte, who has not said much all evening, murmurs, “The more I think about it, Nipishish, the more I am sure that this woman knows the truth. If she was a witness to the accident, she surely knows more than we do…”

“I can assure you that it was a new canoe.” Mathieu’s voice hisses in the darkness like the sound of a ﬂock of geese passing high overhead.

“I am going to Ottawa, to 16 Stewart Street!” I say. “I want to get to the bottom of this. And I’m afraid of what Macdonald is going to do next.”

IN THE WINTER, you can see the bus coming from far away. It’s big and it looks rushed, as if it is late. The driver has seen me, too. He can’t miss me. I’m the only one on the road.

I wave. He slows down and I scramble onto the snowbank along the road until he stops. He looks annoyed.

“Where are you going?” he yells down from his seat.

“Ottawa!”

“You got money?”

I show him the twenty-dollar bill that I’ve kept rolled up in my ﬁst inside my mitten.

“Okay! It’s six dollars to Grand Remous. You get off there and take another bus to Ottawa.”

I get on, my bag over my shoulder. I pay. The bus has already started to move again. I go down the aisle hanging on to one seat after another to keep my balance. It’s like standing up in a big moving canoe.

There are only a few passengers. They look tired, their faces drawn.

My seat is comfortable. It’s hot. I’m sitting above the engine that wheezes and coughs as if it’s always out of breath. The white landscape ﬂies by. I lean my forehead against the cold window, my bag on my knees, and drift into a restless sleep.

• • •

“Can I sit here?”

“What? Oh, sure, yes.”

I have no choice. The bus from Grand Remous to Ottawa is crowded. I take my bag off the seat beside me and put it on my knees.

“Do you want me to put your baggage up top?”

“No, thanks! I’m ﬁne like this.”

My neighbor is a nervous fellow, young but bald on the top of his head. His face is narrow, his nose long with big nostrils, and he has a thick ash-blond moustache.

I listen to the wide tires of the bus roll through the wet snow. It’s already supper time. The kitchens of the houses along the road are lit up. I catch glimpses of heads inside. I imagine families sitting at the table.

My neighbor coughs and turns to me.

“Hello, I’m Michel Létourneau.” He holds out his hand. “I’m from Ottawa. Been visiting my sister up in Val d’Or.”

“Hello!”

His grip is warm, bony and ﬁrm.

“Are you an Indian?”

“Yes…”

“When I saw you get on the bus right in the middle of La Vérendrye I said to myself, Must be an Indian.” He takes a deep breath, wrinkles his nostrils. “You’ve got the smell of the woods on you. The smoke of a campﬁre, the evergreens. I know that smell. I was a Boy Scout when I was a kid.”

I don’t know what to say.

“But it’s unusual. First time I’ve seen an Indian in the ﬂesh coming right out of the woods. What’s your name?”

“Nipishish.”

“Nipi…what?”

“Ni-pi-shish!”

“Your ﬁrst name is Nipi and your last name is Chiche?”

I only have one name in Algonquin, but I don’t want to bore him by explaining.

“Nipi Chiche. It’s a nice name. What does it mean?”

“Little River, or Running Water…”

“Oh, right. Little River…Nipi Chiche. The Indian language is very ﬂowery, very poetic. Though you don’t look one hundred percent Indian…”

“I’m Métis.”

“Métis?”

“My mother was white.”

“And your father Indian?

“That’s right.”

“I’ve just ﬁnished my law degree. Getting ready to open a law ofﬁce in Hull. It’s right beside Ottawa. What about you? What do you do?”

“I’m a trapper.”

“A trapper! Oh, that’s my childhood dream. I envy you Indians. You have a damned good life without even knowing it. The forest, big spaces, freedom…”

I let him go on like that and then, when he has ﬁnished his little speech, I decide it’s my turn to talk.

“Can I ask you something?

“Sure, go ahead!”

He leans his head forward like a priest hearing confession.

“Do you know Stewart Street in Ottawa?

“Stewart? Well, sure, I know it. It runs through campus.”

“Campus?”

“It’s the university. A school for… for adults. Is that where you’re going? Stewart Street?

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to get there?”

“No.”

“It’s not hard. At the bus station, take a taxi or get on bus number 9.”

“And on foot?”

“On foot? On foot it’s pretty far. At least 45 minutes. An hour, probably.”

I look at him.

“Oh, yes, you Indians walk all the time. One hour, two, three, doesn’t bother you. When we get there I’ll draw you a map and you’ll see.”

The bus dashboard gleams like a starry night. My traveling companion is just a shadow in the blackness. Whenever a car passes by I can see his white hands, his eyes shining like drops of water. He lowers his voice, spaces out his questions.

“What brings you to town?”

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Your parents?”

“No…a friend.” I shut up. Maybe I’ve already said too much. I realize I don’t know this man, and already he knows who I am, where I’m going. Why has he been asking me all these questions?

“When we get to the bus station I’ll give you my business card,” he says. “You’ll have my name, address, phone number. If you ever need my services, don’t hesitate to contact me. You are welcome to stay with me, too. It’s small, but comfortable…”

“Thank you, but I’ve got plans.”

I have nothing planned, except for one thing. All I want is to ﬁnd Rita Whiteduck. All I want is to go to 16 Stewart Street.

My neighbor is quiet. He stares in front of him, his arms crossed on his stomach. I roll a question around in my head for a long time before I ask.

“A lawyer, what do you do?”

He jumps like he’s been bitten on the rear end by a wasp.

“A lawyer?” He raises his voice like he’s giving a speech. “A lawyer, my friend, is a person who defends the rights of all citizens. For example, if someone thinks they’ve been deprived of their property, wronged or treated or accused unjustly, they call a lawyer to defend their case in front of the courts. I became a lawyer because I think that we are all equal before the law and that we must all live with respect and dignity. A lawyer sees that justice is done!”

“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say.

There are more and more houses on both sides, and the road is well lit now. The highway becomes the main street that runs through a village. On top of a low building a bright neon sign glows with colored lights: The Longest Bar in the World, Beer and Beans.

I know that we have nearly reached Ottawa.

THE TRIP TO Ottawa is behind me. On the way home I run through the story ten times, twenty times. Tonight I will have to tell it again to Pinamen, Manie, Sam, Charlotte and Mathieu, who are all waiting for me impatiently.

My eyes are watching the road. Suddenly I stand up like a fox that has spotted a partridge.

“Here, sir. This is where I want to get off.”

The driver looks at me incredulously.

“Here?”

“Yes. Right here is good.” I am already standing on the step.

“In the middle of the woods?”

“Yes. This is where I live.”

“Okay!”

The bus stops. The door opens. I jump into a snowbank. I ﬁnd my snowshoes hidden under an old pine and put them on. My body aches all over from sitting so long, but I quickly forget the pain. I am dying to get home.

• • •

Sam and Mathieu are smoking beside the ﬁre. It is warm in the cabin. It smells good. The full moon is rising. I’m on my third cup of tea. Manie and Pinamen are sitting at the table casually, patiently. Everyone is waiting to hear my story.

Finally Manie can’t take it anymore.

“So, your trip, Nipishish?”

I take a last slow sip of black tea.

Pinamen raises the wick of the oil lamp sitting in the middle of the table. The ﬂame lights up our hands and faces as I settle down to tell my story.

“On the bus I met a nice man, Michel Létourneau. Look, I have his card.”

Pinamen reads it out: “Maître Michel Létourneau, Lawyer, 13 rue Pilon, Hull, Quebec, 777-2497.”

“He’s the one who told me how to get to Stewart Street. He told me about the bus station in Ottawa, Albert Street, the Rideau Canal. Ottawa is big. All the streets look alike. Looking for a house is worse than looking for a black spruce in an evergreen forest.

“We got to the city at night, too late for me to go to Stewart Street. So I sat on a bench in the station and waited for dawn. I ate the bannock and drank the tea Pinamen made for me, and there were lots of things to see. In the city the whites are like beavers. They live at night as much as during the day.

“At the ﬁrst light of day, I left on foot, following the map Létourneau had drawn for me. First the canal, then the bridge. I knew I was going the right way.

“I wasn’t in a hurry. I walked slowly, looking up at the street signs at each corner.

“Suddenly I read Stewart. The street really existed. There were numbers on each door. I counted backwards as I walked down the street. Twenty…eighteen…

“Sixteen. A little door under a staircase.

“There wasn’t much snow in the city, but it was cold because of the damp wind. It blew through my clothes.

“I watched the door for a moment, in case someone came out. Number sixteen looked closed up. Dark curtains were pulled over the only window that looked out onto the street.

“There were more and more young people on the sidewalk, all walking in the same direction.

“I made up my mind. I walked up to the door, raised my hand and knocked.

“I waited. I tried to see through the curtain. I had the feeling that someone was moving inside. I thought I saw a shadow move. I was getting ready to knock again more loudly when I heard footsteps. Someone was coming. Someone was pushing aside the curtain to peek out. An eye looked at me. The bolt was drawn and the door opened.

“It was a woman. ‘Oh!’ she said. She turned pale and put her hand to her mouth. Her eyes grew round. ‘Come in, come in quickly! It’s cold out there.’

“Her voice was thin and high. I didn’t have time to look at her closely or ask who she was. She led me down the hall to the kitchen. She was a small woman, stooped over, almost hunchbacked. She was wrapped in a black shawl that fell down to her ankles. She walked slowly, limping, with one hand leaning on the wall for support.

“She avoided me with her eyes. Her voice was like a thin trickle of water.

“‘Give me your coat,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’

“She pulled out a little wooden chair. She was crippled. It was as if one whole side of her body was paralyzed.

“‘Nipishabo?’

“She asked me in Algonquin whether I wanted some tea! A smile broke over her face. A scar that ran from her eye to the corner of her mouth grew red. She sat down on the other side of the table and looked at me.

“‘Rita?’ I said. ‘Are you Rita Whiteduck?’

“She grabbed my hand.

“‘Nipishish!’ she said. Her hands were trembling. ‘It’s you! I would know you anywhere. I knew that one day you would knock at my door. I’ve been waiting for you. I knew you would be tall and handsome. I’ve been counting the years. You move just like your father. You have his eyes. Whenever he came to see me he sat right there on the edge of his chair, just the way you’re doing now. I told him he looked like a bird sitting on a branch, always ready to ﬂy away. He would laugh at that!’

“Tears ﬁlled her eyes and ﬂowed down her wrinkled cheeks.”

Pinamen, Manie, Charlotte, Sam, Mathieu — they are all astonished at my story. My voice is hoarse, and my throat is ﬁlled with emotion as I tell them Rita’s story.

There were four or ﬁve of us young Indians who came to Ottawa to escape from our reserves, to work or study. We wanted to take control of our lives, be free, independent. Shipu joined the group. He came from Kazabazua every weekend and lived with me. He told me about you, his son, Nipishish. You were the reason he always returned to the reserve. He was torn between his life there and his obligations here.

He quickly became the heart of the group, an important and respected leader. He was a smart and gifted organizer. He spoke Algonquin, Cree, Attikamek, English and French. He always had the right words to move the most stubborn hearts. He wanted us to claim our rights — end the logging on our territories, the pollution of our rivers. He believed in respect for animals. He was against the compulsory education of young people in residential schools. He took on the government, the forestry companies, the church, the RCMP…

We had begun to organize weekend meetings in Maniwaki, Akwesasne, Caughnawaga, Huron Village… a little everywhere. We had met a great man, Jules Sioui, a Huron and visionary like Louis Riel. And we created a committee for the protection of Indian rights. At our meetings, we gradually realized that everywhere — in Canada, the United States — a ﬁre was brewing under the ashes. The Indians were frustrated, ready to claim their rights. It was the right time. The chiefs knew their people were living in misery and shame, that the government was violating all the treaties and that we were on the road to extinction. This was at the beginning of the forties, right in the middle of the Great War. Shipu had torn up his enlistment notice. Several young Indians were in a similar situation. We all protested vigorously. This was not our war. Shipu took refuge on the reserve for safety.

Then we decided to strike a major blow. We would organize, right here in Ottawa, a huge congress aimed at creating a North American Indian Government. It was an impossible dream, really, but we were full of energy and we had great hopes. Jules wrote a letter inviting all the chiefs in North America. Shipu was to give the closing address.

We were very naive. Nobody suspected that the Canadian government would worry about our actions. But in the eyes of the politicians, we were dangerous troublemakers, terrorists without knowing it. The RCMP, which had been created to protect us, was ordered to keep us under surveillance and inﬁltrate our organization. The Ministry of Indian Affairs started to intimidate the chiefs, cut subsidies, discredit us and forbid delegates from attending the congress, but they knew they were losing control of the situation. We had the wind in our sails.

I was the secretary of the committee. One day I received a visit from a tall, thin young man with green eyes. He said he was a journalist. He wanted to write an article on our movement, know our objectives, who our principal supporters were…I told him I would have to consult with the committee before giving him an answer. Two days later, my apartment was broken into and all our papers were stolen. The list of our organizers and our members had disappeared. The following week, all our organizers were searched in their homes and were formally accused of sedition and conspiracy. We were treated like criminals in our own country.

I panicked. I was afraid for Shipu. He was on the reserve and didn’t know what was going on.

That night, I had one of our supporters drive me to the reserve. We arrived at dawn. Shipu was putting his canoe in the water and getting ready to go out to raise his ﬁshing net. He was surprised but happy to see me. I loved him in the city, but here I found him so handsome and strong. His black hair was tied back in a long ponytail. His eyes were like deep water. I still remember the emotion that ﬁlled me that cool morning.

We cast off in his beautiful brand-new canoe. I wanted the three of us to run away — you, me and him. We would hide in the United States or deep in the forest. I would have followed him anywhere, to the end of the earth.

He handled the canoe easily, like he was part of the river. You could see that he loved it. The hazy mist lifted slowly. The thick red pines on the cliffs were reﬂected in the water.

I was sitting in the bow, my arms along the gunwales. I could feel the cold water running beneath me. I never loved him as much as I did at that moment. I told him about the visit from the journalist, the lists being stolen, how afraid Jules was…I wanted to just listen to my heart, to tell him how much I loved him, but things were serious. He’d been accused of sedition, and the police were looking for him.

My words shook him. I saw his face darken. He was paddling mechanically.

“Shipu! We’re in danger. What are we going to do?”

“We are going to ﬁnish what we’ve started, Rita. There’s no question of turning back now.” His voice was deep and calm. The canoe ﬂoated silently.

Suddenly I heard a ﬂock of crows croaking in the treetops. Shipu went pale. His eyes looked startled, like a trapped animal. He shouted my name and raised a hand toward me as if he was trying to shield me from something…

I heard a crack of thunder on the water. Wood splinters ﬂew up around me. Shipu fell forward against me, covering me with his body. The water churned…

I heard another crack and then another! There was no more canoe. We were sinking. I was swallowing water, I could no longer see or hear anything. I hardly knew how to swim…

Shipu held me up. He swam using one arm and kicking with his legs. I don’t know how many times we sank and then made it back up to the surface. The water was terribly black and cold. I was choking, my ears were roaring. I was sure we were going to die. We had been seized by the swirling rapids. Our bodies were dashed against the rocks, sucked and twisted and battered…And then we were swept into the falls.

I don’t know how long we struggled. I lost consciousness.

When I came to, I was wrapped in a blanket, lying on the back seat of a car. Then I lost consciousness again. I opened my eyes three weeks later. I was in the intensive care unit of the Ottawa General Hospital with broken ribs, a perforated lung, my face cut to shreds and half my body paralyzed. I was confused for a long time, drugged, out of touch with reality. I learned that Shipu was dead and buried. For months I was unable to speak, locked up with my pain and my terrible secret.

“Rita burst into tears then. I didn’t know what to say. My whole body was shaking. It was as if my father had just died in front of me.

“We sat in silence for a long time. Then Rita gave a slight smile that twisted her features.

“‘I used to be beautiful, you know, back then,’ she said. ‘I often thought of you, even though I had never seen you. I worked for the ministry from time to time. I even wrote to the residential school, asking about you. But I always knew that when the time was right, you would knock on my door…’

“‘Who drove the car that took you to the hospital?’ I asked. I was surprised at how calm my voice was.

“‘The reporter!’ she said hoarsely, her eyes blazing with bitterness.

“‘And what was his name?’

“‘John Macdonald! I know it was him. Later I realized that he was in the RCMP. He came to make me sign some papers when I was in the hospital. I didn’t tell him I recognized him from the car. I said nothing. I was so frightened. Nipishish, you are the only person in the world I have told this to. This story belongs to you now. When I got out of the hospital it was too late to say anything, and the police knew it. They left me alone. Our members had disappeared or been silenced. Look at me, Nipishish, who would have believed me? An Indian, a cripple, a traitor accused of sedition? I decided to wait for you. You can speak, you must speak! Justice must be done. I am ready to testify. Today they will believe me.’”

“Rita got up with difﬁculty, leaning on the table and then on the back of the chair. She was exhausted. She opened a cupboard and took out a birchbark basket.

“‘I got this basket from your father. He liked to bring me presents from the forest. I have written down everything I’ve just told you. It’s all here. I’m entrusting it to you. It’s yours.’

From the bottom of my bag, I pull out the basket and put it down in front of us. Manie brings out another lamp. She lights the wick and adjusts the ﬂame. Now we have two lamps, one at each end of the table. The yellow light gleams on the golden bark of the basket, polished by time. It reﬂects in our eyes like little candles.

The basket is full of papers. Jules Sioui’s letter inviting the treaty chiefs of the Indian nations to Ottawa, the agenda for the conference. I take it all out and pile it neatly. Then I reach down to make sure I have everything and I ﬁnd… an envelope. There’s a photo inside. I take it and look at it for a long time.

It’s my father. He is young and smiling, wearing his fringed vest open on his chest. He has his arm around the waist of a pale woman. She looks happy, but she isn’t smiling. Her hair is black and wavy. I don’t know her.

I turn over the photo. On the back someone has written in pencil: Shipu and Flore, Kaza, 1943.

Flore! It’s my mother. I move the picture closer to the light. I devour it with my eyes.

I’m crying. They are tears I have held back for a long time. I have often thought of my mother. I saw her in my dreams. When I was younger I invented an imaginary mother, blurry like a reﬂection in a running brook, a mother without a face…

The others are all looking at me with concerned faces. I hold out the photo.

“My mother and father!” My voice is trembling with emotion.

Pinamen rests her hand on my arm. I feel its warmth. All eyes are focused on the little photo. Nobody dares to take it from me.

I rest my hand on the envelope and feel an object between my thumb and foreﬁnger. It’s a narrow ring made of silver. Without hesitating, I take Pinamen’s hand and slip the ring on her ﬁnger.

Manie sniffs noisily and wipes away the big tears on her cheeks.

“Well done, my children. Well done!”

The atmosphere relaxes. The photo is carefully passed from one hand to another, like a treasure. Charlotte pours the last of the tea. It is as black as a bear’s pelt.

“That is Shipu, all right…”

“He had good taste…yes…”

“She’s a beautiful woman!”

“Rita told me that Shipu was always discreet about my mother. He went to see her in the sanatorium. He didn’t speak about it much, but she believed he thought about her often.”

Sam and Charlotte ﬁll up the stove with green birch. Mathieu empties his pipe.

It’s time to sleep. I feel as if I’ve lived through several years in a few days. The lamps are blown out.

I’m happy to ﬁnd Pinamen under the covers. We hold each other. Her breath is warm against my ear. Her words sound like the wind in the young leaves of the poplars in spring.

“Are you glad you made the trip?” she whispers.

“Yes, I learned a lot of things…”

“What about Macdonald?”

“You know the lawyer?”

“Létourneau?”

“Yes. I’m going to write him and explain. He’ll help me. I trust him.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Rest your head on my chest. You have to rest, sleep.”

“Yes.”

“We can sleep like this all winter, in our den. Not come out until spring.”

“Sleep like a marmot, as the whites would say.”

“…and do marmots make love in the winter, in their den?”

“Yes, I would say so!”

THE DAYS ARE getting warmer. I only go out very early in the morning now, after the icy night has hardened the trail, and I come back at noon, my sled heavy with wood. I am getting ready for the next trapping season.

On the way back I visit the ﬁshing lines that hang in holes I’ve cut in the ice. I pull out a feast of big gray trout that I share with my dogs.

The team struggles on the path. The heat is affecting the animals. Their coats have lost their sheen. Their fur lies ﬂat on their backs and haunches and becomes tangled around their necks.

In the afternoon Mush dozes, stretched out on the wooden porch. The spring sun is high in the sky, and it melts the granular snow. The water rises here and there on the ﬂank of the mountain and runs into the swollen stream like it’s been sprung from prison, taking the air and breathing deeply. It sneaks under the snow and ice and eats it from below. The river is cracking and yellowing, getting ready for breakup. Soon the snow geese will be streaming north.

Pinamen and I are putting the ﬁnal touches on the letter that we are writing to Monsieur Létourneau. Tomorrow I will take it to the bus. The driver will mail it for us in Ottawa.

Pinamen reads the letter one last time. She is standing near the door, and behind her the sun blazes across the window pane.

Dear Sir:

My name is Nipishish (just one word). You probably remember me. We met on the bus from Grand Remous to Ottawa. You told me how to get to Stewart Street. I was going there to ﬁnd a woman named Rita Whiteduck. I hoped this woman could throw some light on the troubling circumstances surrounding the death of my father, Shipu, who died when I was a child.

I am happy to tell you that my visit was not in vain. I found the person I was looking for. Not only was she a witness to the death of my father, she was also a victim and still suffers a great deal today. After I heard her story I knew that my father did not die accidentally as the RCMP report concluded. Shipu was coldly assassinated for political reasons. I am sending you enclosed a copy transcribed by my companion Pinamen of the testimony of Rita Whiteduck and of the contradictory police report.

But I feel that the police are closing in on me more and more each day. I am worried for my life and the well-being of Pinamen, who is pregnant. I remember very well what you said about justice. That’s what has made me write to you today to ask for your help in this matter. You offered your services and I realize that I have urgent need of them.

I know that you understand the situation I am in. We Indians can no longer continue to close our eyes to such injustices. It is for the memory of my father and to carry on his mission that I am undertaking this action. I am also doing it for myself, for Pinamen, for the children we will have. This is about the survival of my people. This week, as I watched the snowﬂakes melting on the embers of my campﬁre, I realized that this is what will happen to us Indians if we do not react promptly to the injustices that are being done to us.

You may, if you think it is necessary, contact Mrs. Rita Whiteduck at 16 Stewart Street in Ottawa. She will be eager to cooperate with you.

Pinamen and I have spent many hours writing this letter. We hope it is clear and that it will touch you. We thank you in advance for your attention. Please send any mail to Sam Brascoupé, Lac Rapide Indian Reserve, via Val d’Or, La Vérendrye Park.

Sincerely,
Nipishish (Pierre Larivière)
and Pinamen Petiquay

I’M HARNESSING Carcajou when La Coureuse sounds the alarm, her nose to the wind. At the same moment, Pinamen comes out onto the porch. She’s followed by Mush, who is barking furiously.

“Nipishish, someone’s coming on the lake,” she says.

I jump onto the porch to look out. A dark spot is moving across the silver ice.

We wait for the silhouette to grow clearer. It’s moving slowly, gradually getting bigger. It follows a long bridge of snow that has been tramped down over the winter by the dog team.

We know we’ve been seen. The walk is clumsy, like an osprey walking on land. The dogs have stopped their noise.

“It’s William!”

“William?”

“The manager of the band council. Remember him?”

“Yes… but what does he want with us?”

“I don’t know. He’s the last person I’d expect to see here.”

William stops at the dock, which is still locked in the ice. He has ﬂipped back his fur hood and opened his parka. His long stiff hair looks like a black crown under his red wool toque.

He’s happy that he’s made it. A smile splits his round face and stretches his thick moustache.

“Hello, trapper!”

“Hello, William! Come on up!”

He’s exhausted. His whole face is perspiring. We go down to meet him. We shake hands.

“You remember Pinamen?”

“Yes, of course. Hello.”

“Hello, William. Welcome.”

“It’s the end of the world out here.”

“Come on in. There’s hot tea and bannock waiting for you.”

“Won’t say no to that.”

The steps bend dangerously under his weight.

“I’m not in the best shape.”

“Sit down! Make yourself comfortable.”

He takes off his parka, but keeps his bag and puts it in front of him on the table. He looks all around, taking in every corner of the cabin. He raises his eyebrows in surprise. He looks like a marmot that’s just poked its head out of its den for the ﬁrst time in the spring.

“I envy you! This is my childhood dream. I’d give a lot to be able to live in the forest. You’re lucky — trapping, ﬁshing, hunting, eating game every day. That’s freedom. Life on the reserve is far from rosy, I can tell you. I saw those skins drying on the porch. The season’s been good for you, I can see.”

“Not bad…”

“And now it’s spring.”

“Almost. In two or three weeks we’ll have open water. I can’t wait to put in the canoe.”

The air whistles in William’s throat. He blows on his tea to cool it down. He’s uncomfortable, takes little sips.

We kill time with small talk. It’s Pinamen who starts the real conversation.

“You must have left the reserve at sunrise to get here so early, William.”

“Yes. I slipped out quietly. They trust me and I have to travel a lot for my work. I pretended I was going to Maniwaki for a meeting —”

“Who’s they? Why pretend?” I interrupt.

He laughs, but it’s a nervous little laugh, and I don’t like it. He appears surprised.

“The RCMP, the agents from the ministry, of course…”

“But why do you have to hide the fact that you’re coming to see me? Is it a crime to visit me and Pinamen?”

I can feel myself getting annoyed. Pinamen puts her hands on my shoulders.

“Nipishish,” William says. “As we expected, the investigators checked all the ﬁles in the band ofﬁce, one by one. They know now that the ﬁles belonging to Pierre Larivière and his father Shipu are empty. I played along, acted as if I knew nothing. It was smart of you just to take the contents — it gained you some time. And having those papers in your possession gives you a certain amount of protection. But they can come and arrest you at any time. I came to tell you that that’s what they are preparing to do. Your days here are numbered.” He wipes his forehead with a big handkerchief. “And believe me, they have proof!”

“Tell me, William, since when have the police needed proof to arrest an Indian? If they had wanted to arrest me, they would have done it long ago.”

“Let it go, Nipishish!”

“Let it go? Forget the residential school, the humiliations? William, have you forgotten Antan who hanged himself in the washroom? Have you forgotten that you were abused, lied to, spat on? Me, I will never forget it.”

He’s not listening to me.

“Macdonald is worried. He wants to get those stolen ﬁles back at any cost. When he realized that you were the one who had them, he had a ﬁt. I’ve never seen him like that. He’s a dangerous man, Nipishish.”

William bends over and looks in his bag and takes out a big envelope that he hands me.

“You seem to have a gift for getting under his skin. You provoke him.”

Pinamen and I read together. The envelope is addressed to Sam Brascoupé, Lac Rapide Indian Reserve, La Vérendrye Park. In the left corner in small letters you can read Ofﬁce of Michel Létourneau, Lawyer, 13 rue Pilon, Hull.

“It’s addressed to Sam!”

“Yes, but I know it’s for you. Macdonald knows it, too.”

The envelope is crumpled. The paper is dirty and torn.

“Where did you ﬁnd it?”

William hesitates.

“In Macdonald’s desk drawer. When he realizes it’s missing, he’s going to be furious.”

The letter has already been opened. Pinamen and I start to read.

Dear Sir,

Yes, I remember you very well. I read your letter and the enclosed documents with great interest. I am convinced that your case is just and I will take it on without hesitation. At your suggestion, I met with Mme Rita Whiteduck. Her testimony moved me deeply. And if I had any doubt concerning the validity of your case, they disappeared on the spot. We must now consolidate our proof before proceeding with the accusation. The documents you possess are extremely valuable. They are the originals. Make sure you keep them in a safe place. Eventually you will have to send them to me. For the moment, I am pushing ahead with my inquiry with the Ministry of Indian Affairs and the RCMP. It is not easy. All the pieces that interest us are classiﬁed top secret and are therefore inaccessible. I have been received with hostility at both places. I have nevertheless learned that the RCMP is far from having clean hands. I found a number of complaints brought against them by the Indian chiefs. They have committed many abuses of power including rape, intimidation and violence.

Could you draw up a list of everyone who might testify in this case and send it to me — relatives or friends who were present on the day your father died, etc.? I must question them. That is what you can do for the time being. We should arrange to meet as early as this spring. I hope I will be able to meet your companion then.

You can count on my loyal service. As for my fees, do not worry about that. We will see to it when the time comes.

Sincerely yours,
Michel Létourneau

We raise our heads in silence. I am sure that William has already read the letter.

“Thank you, William. You took a big risk.”

“I’ll probably need a good lawyer, too, who knows. I don’t know what this Létourneau can do for you. Indians have never had recourse to the services of a lawyer. And a white, too. But then you, Nipishish, don’t do things like the rest of the world. At the residential school you never let yourself be ruled by the priests. You survived in town, you’ve always spoken your mind, you’ve stolen these ﬁles and you have even kept the RCMP at bay. Now you are trapping like the elders, and you’ve engaged a lawyer to defend your cause. You’re a bloody magician!”

He gets up like a bullfrog, leaning his big hands on the table to help lever himself up.

“Good. I have to get back to the reserve.” He frowns suddenly.

“I can ﬁnish harnessing the dogs and take you across the lake by sled. That will save you time. I can be ready in two minutes.”

“Okay, that would be great. Pinamen, thank you for the tea and bannock. It was very good. Goodbye!”

A COLD WIND has been blowing all night. The ﬂoor is freezing beneath my feet. I put on my ﬂannel shirt and tend the ﬁre. Pinamen stays warm under the mass of blankets, like a bear in its den. She will come out when it’s warm.

As I do every morning, I go to the window to check the weather. Through the pale dawn I can see ice crystals dancing in the air.

This morning the cold has come back with a vengeance. I had been hoping for a few more days of winter. I knew it would come back for one last ﬁght before packing up its bags.

The return of the cold makes me happy. I am going to take advantage of it to lift my last traps and come back this afternoon for a load of dry wood. Pinamen and I are leaving for the reserve as soon as the lake is clear. We will leave Sam and Charlotte’s camp in the same state we found it and get ready to travel together to Ottawa.

I eat quickly and put on my warm clothes. I’m in a hurry to get on the trail. My dogs are waiting, restless, their heads high, their tails waving like ﬂags. I will need all my strength and skill to slow them down and keep the sled balanced on the path.

I am a man of the winter. I love this season. It’s so pure and honest, always throwing out a challenge. Winter never leaves me indifferent.

But I am happy to see the coming of spring, to hear the water surge in the swollen veins of the earth, to wake up in the morning to the low, raucous song of the snow geese, to put my canoe in the water. Still, my heart will always skip a beat when I think of winter. If its call is too strong, we will come back — Pinamen, the baby and me — to live with it again.

Outside I give a big cry of joy and freedom. “Allez, La Coureuse! Allez! Let’s go!”

My sled glides on the crusty snow like a canoe on the water. The ﬁrs, the spruce, the snow and the ice, the wind and the rocks are all ringing with our cries of joy and our yelps of effort. I want them to know our names and know that we are one with them, that we also have deep roots and we pull our sap from the same earth.

• • •

I am checking the trap line when Mush appears in a burst and throws himself at my legs, barking madly.

“Mush! Calm down…stop! What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

He’s panting hard, covered in sweat.

“Where is Pinamen?”

Something’s wrong at the cabin.

I listen. The dogs bark. Two snowmobiles surge into view like cannons at the end of the point and bounce over the ice. They are heading straight for the soft ice at the mouth of the river.

Who are they? What are they doing there?

Then I see Pinamen in the back. I recognize her anorak, her silhouette.

No!

I run to the team.

“Allez, La Coureuse. Allez, quickly!”

We set off toward them.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!”

We leave the trail. The team moves out onto the icy snow. I know that it’s the RCMP and that they are looking for me, but all I think about is Pinamen.

We are running toward the same spot, where the path crosses the river. I hug the shore as closely as possible. They think I am trying to escape. We approach each other. They are coming in on an angle, closing in on the dogs. I wave frantically, signaling at them not to get too close. I see Pinamen pounding on the back of the stubborn driver.

They are at the point of cutting me off when the two big engines suddenly disappear under the ice.

“Whoa! Whoa!”

I come to a stop, stunned, sick to the core. In front of me water is heaving in a black hole ﬁlled with ﬂoating pieces of ice and snow. And all I can hear is the heavy silence.

Is this death? It is so quiet and peaceful on the ice, as if nothing has happened and everything is normal, but life has just turned upside down.

Suddenly, Pinamen rises out of the black hole. She ﬂails furiously. I grab the safety cord and lie ﬂat on the ice like an eel, my stomach in the wet snow.

“Pinamen! Pinamen!”

Her eyes are full of terror. She leans her forearms on the ice that is still ﬁrm. I throw her the cord and she wraps it around her wrist.

“Pull, La Coureuse, allez!” I scream.

My dogs can feel my desperation. They heave their shoulders mightily in their collars. They lift Pinamen out of the water and pull her out onto the icy bank.

We must be quick, very quick. I break the crust on top of the snow with my heel. I roll her in the snow to absorb the water from her clothes. We don’t speak. She sits in the sled. Mush jumps on her knees and she takes him in her arms. I cover them with sheets of canvas and moose skin.

I only have one thought in my head, to get home as quickly as possible.

Then I hear it.

“Help! Help!”

It’s Macdonald. He is ﬂailing desperately in the water. He has lost his hat and his mittens. He tries to crawl out onto the ice but his hands keep slipping. He is about to drown. The other man has disappeared.

“Ha! Ha!”

The team turns around.

“Whoa! Whoa!”

I go back. I brake again and throw the cord. Macdonald grabs it by the knot. He grips with two hands, stretching out his body like a ﬁsh.

I call to the dogs.

“Allez! Allez! Whoa! Whoa!”

The policeman is kneeling in the snow now. He’s a thin, muscular man, in good shape. He ties the rope around his belt. Our eyes meet. He knows that this is a matter of life and death. He will have to run to the camp. It is our only chance.

I put my hands on the sled and the team takes off. The dogs usually start off quickly and then gradually slow down to a trot. But now they feel my urgency, and they literally ﬂy. I run, too, so I don’t freeze. The front of my anorak is as hard as a tortoise shell. I think of Pinamen, soaked in freezing water. I don’t call out to the dogs. My heart is clenched. I push, I run, I bang my hands against the sled to soften my mittens. I close my ﬁsts so my ﬁngers don’t freeze.

The rope at my feet is taut. Macdonald is running behind us, pulled by the dogs. I don’t have time to look back. It will slow me down. I have my ax close by, sharp as a razor. With one blow I could cut the cord and leave him to freeze on the trail.

I know the way. I anticipate the curves, the ups and downs, the ﬂat stretches. I run, I push. I count the minutes.

Pinamen is rolled in a ball under the moose hide. She doesn’t move. I know she is suffering and her pain makes me feel ill.

We’re out in the open now, and the wind lashes against the sled. It hardens my cheeks, freezes my tears. Thin sheets of ice crumble under the runners.

Suddenly the sled bucks. The dogs strain in their collars, their legs stiff, their backs arched, their muzzles pressed to the ice.

Macdonald, at the end of his strength, has fallen. The load grows heavy. His body is lying on the ice at the end of the rope. I push harder.

I can see the camp now. The ﬁve dogs redouble their effort, give the best they can. They have never pulled together so well. It is as if I have one very powerful animal harnessed to the sled.

The team ﬁnally stops. With a blow of the ax, I cut the cord and the main harness. Macdonald and the dogs are freed. I take Pinamen in my arms. She is unconscious. I hurry into the cabin, stretch her out on the bed, take off her frozen clothing. The blankets are scattered all over the ﬂoor and I pick them up and pile them on top of her. I put more dry wood into the stove, open the damper right up.

I’m ﬂying from one task to another when I hear heavy sounds like someone knocking at the bottom of the door. I open it. Macdonald, on his knees, has made it onto the porch. He falls, half of his body in the cabin.

I drag him to the ﬁre. His eyes are haggard, his eyebrows and his hair frozen.

I undress quickly and crawl under the covers with Pinamen. I press her against me, wrap my arms and legs around her. I want to cover her completely with my body until our hearts and our blood are one. Her skin is cold and hard. I rub her neck, her back, her thighs with my open palms. I massage her vigorously. Our bodies cling and roll. I press her breasts and round belly against my stomach and chest. I rub and rub and rub without stopping.

“Pinamen, my beautiful Pinamen, relax. Everything is okay. Everything is going to be ﬁne. We’re home now, in our bed.”

Her body starts to shake violently with long tremors. Her teeth chatter. She trembles like a leaf in a storm. I rub her and talk to her. She presses herself against me. It’s hot in the bed now. I give her all the energy that’s in my body. She takes long breaths to try to control the trembling that runs through her muscles like deep sobs. Her breathing becomes slower, more regular.

I can feel her skin relax, get warmer. The trembling gets weaker and ﬁnally stops.

She sinks into a deep sleep. Her breath is soft on my shoulder.

I remember the horror of seeing her disappear into that black, icy hole, and I chase the image away. I thank the great creator of all things for letting her live. I think of our baby.

Exhausted, I drop off to sleep.

• • •

Someone is moving in the cabin.

Macdonald.

I wake up suddenly. I have forgotten about the policeman. I get up and ﬁnd dry clothes in the bottom of the cupboard. As I get dressed I look around the room.

The cabin has been ransacked. The backpacks have been emptied on the table. The mattresses from the bunk beds are overturned on the ﬂoor. The dishes are scattered in the cupboard.

It’s not difﬁcult to see what happened. Macdonald and his partner must have come here and searched the cabin. And then they took Pinamen with them and came looking for me.

I replace the mattresses, the clothes. I hang the packs back on their nails. I put everything away.

A police uniform lies crumpled in a pool of water. Macdonald is sitting on a log near the stove, bent over and wrapped in a gray wool blanket. He has been tending the ﬁre while we were sleeping. It is very hot in the cabin. The stove is roaring.

His feet are lifeless and swollen, with purple veins running over them like a rotten potato, resting on the split logs that he has piled in front of the stove. His right hand is lying on his left thigh. His ﬁngers have disappeared in a ball of red ﬂesh. His other hand is hidden under the blanket.

The cold has been merciless. His hands and feet are frozen. His face is swollen as if he has been whipped. His whole body is contracted in pain.

Pinamen joins me. Alarmed, we slowly approach the policeman. We are close to the wood box that he has gradually been emptying. He has left the ﬁles in the bottom, among the wood shavings.

Macdonald pulls himself up with difﬁculty. He is unrecognizable. His eyes are as lifeless as a dead ﬁsh.

I feel no more hate toward this man; just a deep pity.

He looks up at us.

“How…how do you say thank you, in your language,” he stammers.

“We say miguetsh!” Pinamen says.

“And thank you very much?”

“Kitchi miguetsh!”

“Kitchi miguetsch, Nipishish!”

Suddenly, the pack starts to bark furiously in chorus, like old hungry wolves. I can hear snowmobile engines on the lake. They are coming to the rescue of the policemen who have not reported in all day.

Under the gray blanket, Macdonald is doubled over in pain. Like us, he knows his condition is serious. Very serious.

YESTERDAY, SAM TOOK the dogs away in his big canoe. I miss them already. I look at the lake through the window. Tomorrow, Pinamen and I will leave the cabin and the lake, too. We will go back to the reserve.

Mush is dozing, lying in the sun on the porch. Suddenly he gets up.

The geese have been feeding at the end of the bay. Now they suddenly rise up in a ﬂurry and beat their wings furiously, stretching their legs and their necks as they ripple the clear water and pass noisily above our heads.

“Pinamen, come and see!”

Six canoes have just rounded the point. It’s a real ﬂotilla. They have a light breeze at their backs. The lake scarcely quivers as the sun shines on the wet blades of the paddles that move in rhythm.

“There are three people in each canoe…”

“Eighteen!”

“What are all these people doing here?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go down and see.”

We join Mush, who is already on the end of the dock, his tail waving.

“I see Sam’s canoe! Manie and Mathieu are paddling.”

“And William!”

“The Toleys, the Rankins, the Papatis and the Mitchells! The Ratts! Even the Matchewan chief is there!”

We wait for them on the dock. They come in one after the other, like an invasion. Soon the dock is full of people.

“Kwe! Kwe!”

We shake hands in the confusion. Manie and Pinamen hug each other happily.

“Kwe! Kwe!”

“Come and sit down.”

Pinamen leads the way up to the cabin. Her belly is as round as the sun, and it swells under her ﬂowered dress.

The cabin is ﬁlled to bursting. Each person takes a chair, a bench, a log, the edge of a bed or sits on the ﬂoor, leaning against the wood box. Pinamen makes more tea by throwing ﬁstfuls of black leaves into the kettle. She gets out the cups, the dishes, bowls — anything that can be used to drink from. Everyone has tea. Mush goes from one guest to another.

Black eyes shine, and there are soft smiles on every face. They all look happy to be here. The talk moves from hunting, to ﬁshing, to trapping. Several have not been to Lac aux Quenouilles in a long time. They have good memories.

In the midst of all the chatter, Pinamen and I glance at each other. Neither one of us knows what is going on, but it feels good to have these people around us.

I stand up. Everyone is quiet.

“We are honored, Pinamen and I, to receive you here in the camp that Sam Brascoupé has generously loaned us for the winter. Your visit brings us great pleasure…”

William stands up now. He has exchanged his old cloth bag for a black briefcase with gold trim. He mutters to himself as he takes it out and turns a little wheel with numbers.

Click! He smiles, opens the case, coughs lightly. He looks very ofﬁcial.

“Nipishish, we are here out of friendship, but also for business. The band council and the elders of the community who are present here have met several times this week to talk about the future of the Anishnabe nation. We are all worried about what the coming years will bring to us and our children. The elders have also talked about you a great deal.”

He dives into his briefcase and pulls out a tidy sheaf of papers, organized in brown folders.

“Here are two articles that I have received from a Michel Létourneau.” He gives me a meaningful look. “They appeared in the Ottawa Journal at the beginning of the month. The ﬁrst one is titled ‘Indian Takes Action Against Government.’”

And he reads it out in a solemn voice.

“Nipishish, a young Métis Indian from the Lac Rapide reserve in La Vérendrye Park in Quebec, seeks justice from the Canadian government, the Minister of Indian Affairs and the RCMP for injustices committed against him and his people. He accuses them of the 1950 assassination of his father, Shipu, for political reasons. Shipu was one of the principal forces behind the creation of the so-called North American Indian Government.

“Second, the young Indian claims that the Canadian government does not respect the rights of Indians to self-government and to live as they see ﬁt on the territories that are theirs and that they have lived on for thousands of years. The Indians, according to Nipishish, were never conquered, have never surrendered, have never disowned their nationality and will not bend to the discriminating laws imposed upon them by strangers.

“It is the ﬁrst time an Indian has pursued such accusations and brought them before the courts.

“This is a story we will follow.”

Nobody in the cabin moves. William has not ﬁnished. He moves to a tiny paragraph cut from the same paper.

“Snowmobile Accident Claims Victims.

“At the end of April, two heavy Bombardier snowmobiles driven by ofﬁcers of the RCMP suddenly went through the ice of Lac aux Quenouilles in La Vérendrye Park. The two large machines sank instantly, killing one of the ofﬁcers. The second ofﬁcer’s life was saved when a good samaritan succeeded in pulling him out of the icy water. The ofﬁcer was taken to Ottawa General Hospital where doctors had no choice but to amputate one arm and one leg. His condition is, however, not life-threatening.”

A heavy silence settles over the cabin. William organizes his documents. The Matchewan chief starts to speak.

“We have come here today to say that we approve of your actions and to ask you to pursue them. We have discussed this among ourselves and consulted the elders. The community and the band council have unanimously decided to propose that you speak on behalf of the nation to make our claims to the government. That is what we have come here to ask you.”

It takes my breath away. I never expected such a request. To be responsible for the claims of our people! All eyes are turned to me, waiting for my reply. I can see Pinamen’s pale face and her round eyes, but I don’t need time to think about it. If necessary, I will devote my whole life to it. I will do it for myself, for Pinamen, for our child and all the generations to come.

“Okay, I accept! I am honored by your offer and I will do everything in my power for the defense and recognition of our rights and the well-being of our people.”

We all shake hands. It’s as if a new day is beginning. Our handshakes are warm and ﬁrm. Manie and Pinamen are radiant.

We accompany our visitors down to the dock.

The canoes take their positions on the lake again. Before the paddles dip into the water, the chief says, “We are going to organize a big feast this summer, the feast of the Anishnabe nation. And we will hold it here on Lac aux Quenouilles.”

After they have left, the cabin is quiet again. I hear the cheeping of the magpies and the song of the robin. Mush is sleeping in his favorite spot behind the big stove.

We listen to the last shivery calls of the ospreys that have come back to their nest for another season. I place my hand on Pinamen’s round, smooth belly.

“And our baby? I thought I felt him move earlier…” I whisper.

“The baby is good, Nipi. I know that it is the spirit of his grandfather that brought us out of the water. He was there to protect us. I felt his presence. He gave me strength. We will have a boy, and he will be called Shipu.”

Publisher’s Note

This story takes place between 1959 and 1961, and it is set in southwestern Quebec, in what is now the La Vérendrye Wildlife Reserve. It is a work of ﬁction, but the situations it describes are based on fact.

The Indian reservation system, established more than one hundred years ago, conﬁned native people to small portions of their traditional territories. They were not allowed to drink alcohol, to vote or to own property. The conditions on the reserves were often appalling, and many left to try to make new lives for themselves in the cities. The reserves were managed by band ofﬁces run by government-appointed administrators. Christian churches sent in missionaries to convert natives to Christianity. Natives on the reserves were not allowed to run their own businesses, schools or their local government.

Attempts to form a North American native organization go back to the 1920s, but in 1961 the National Indian Council (part of which eventually became the Assembly of First Nations) was founded to further Métis and Indian concerns. In the years that followed, the public became more aware of the social, economic and legal status of native people, and inquiries were held into how the federal government was managing Indian affairs.

The Indian residential school system was ofﬁcially operated by the federal government and churches in Canada between 1892 and the 1990s. During this time thousands of Indian, Inuit and Métis children were forcibly removed from their homes and communities and placed in the care of strangers under what were often horriﬁc conditions. The schools forced aboriginal children to abandon their language and traditions and to adopt “white” customs and beliefs. The residential schools are now considered to have been a racist act for which native people continue to pay.

Since the 1960s, hydro-electric projects have turned Lac Cabonga into a giant reservoir, and La Vérendrye Wildlife Reserve has been developed for logging and tourism.

About the Author

Michel Noel is the author of several award-winning books for young people, including Pien, which won the Governor General’s Award, and La ligne de trappe, which won the Prix Alvine Belisle for the best children’s book published in Quebec.

Of Métis and Algonquian descent, Michel grew up in the logging camps of northern Quebec, where his family lived alongside the Algonquian of Lac Rapide, Lac Victoria and Maniwaki. He now lives in Quebec City, where he works in the Ministry of Culture and Communications as coordinator of native affairs.

About the Publisher

GROUNDWOOD BOOKS, established in 1978, is dedicated to the production of children’s books for all ages, including fiction, picture books and non-fiction. We publish in Canada, the United States and Latin America. Our books aim to be of the highest possible quality in both language and illustration. Our primary focus has been on works by Canadians, though we sometimes also buy outstanding books from other countries.

Many of our books tell the stories of people whose voices are not always heard in this age of global publishing by media conglomerates. Books by the First Peoples of this hemisphere have always been a special interest, as have those of others who through circumstance have been marginalized and whose contribution to our society is not always visible. Since 1998 we have been publishing works by people of Latin American origin living in the Americas both in English and in Spanish under our Libros Tigrillo imprint.

We believe that by reflecting intensely individual experiences, our books are of universal interest. The fact that our authors are published around the world attests to this and to their quality. Even more important, our books are read and loved by children all over the globe.